


The Extraordinary League (WIP)

by glinda4thegood



Category: Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter - Laurell K. Hamilton, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Chronicles of Riddick (2004), The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (2003)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-23 03:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Transported to an alternate universe where humanity lost ground to vampires early in history, a group of seasoned monster fighters must try to save a Prince and start the long process of putting humanity back on even ground with the monsters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_"The weight of time is heavy on the world. And all men born must die. But there are worlds unknown, where dreamers dream and sleepers sleep, and patiently await._

_“As pledged in Camelot by Merlyn, when the need was greatest and the royal line of Artur in despair, the void would open and the souls whose purpose is salvation may be called to serve._

_“Arise, as was promised and foretold. Arise. Arise!"_

 

**RUPERT: THE SPELL**

“I’m freezing, my hair is snarled, and my cape is ruined. Not to mention how the smell of all this blood must be alerting every revenant in the territory to our presence.” 

Queen Rowan pushed loose curls of dark auburn hair behind her ears with one hand. She held the other hand straight away from her body, exposing a series of bleeding cuts to the night air.

“I told you to wear suitable attire. Hunting clothing.” _It must be her age,_ Rupert thought. _I make a recommendation to go north, she chooses to go south._

Near at hand a bludhund voiced a warning grumble.

“The dogs are uneasy, Lord Giles.” The Captain of the Queen’s Guard was visible only as a dark outline just outside their circle.

“It’s probably the magic, but stay alert, Kiernan. If we do have unwanted company, keep them away from the circle.”

“I’m sure this could have been done just as well in the audience chamber. Why must we climb half a mountain in the cold dark, risk injury, perhaps life? I read the same spell you did. No instruction was given as to a specific staging ground.” Rowan’s words were equal parts sulk and whine. “When is something going to happen?”

“Something _is_ happening.” Rupert Giles felt wind drying the cuts on his own arm, evidence of the amount of time they had waited since speaking the cantrip. He was also aware of building ... immanence. Pressure against his wizard's sensitivities increased by the second. “You would be able to sense it, if you pulled your thoughts away from yourself for a few seconds.”

“I am a woman now. A Queen, Lord Giles. You may not speak to me in that manner.” 

A tiresomely recurring theme since the Prince had gone absent, Rupert thought. “Ah yes. The Virgin Queen Rowan deBerg. The same brat I’ve taught since before she quit wetting herself at night. Your pardon, Queen Rowan. Now close your mouth and concentrate on how the magic works.”

“Beast.”

Rupert knew Rowan was seriously unsettled when she resorted to single-word retorts. His student had a comprehensive vocabulary and stunningly quick wit. Rowan was spoiled, but she was also intelligent, aggressive and potentially a more powerful sorcerer than her teacher. 

“We’ve talked about this before. Merlyn’s old spells are more like folk recipes than apothecary formulas. He rarely gives exact measurements or detailed instruction on how to build the spell. Merlyn’s power was very organic. It grew from his relationship with the earth.” Something was definitely coming their way. Every bit of his skin exposed to air crawled and prickled with magical energy.

“I didn’t want to invoke this spell at all. But, since I am only the lowly servant of my lady Virgin Queen and she has commanded it be done, it is my duty to do everything in my power to ensure the spell works, and works properly, so we are not consumed in an unforeseen backlash of power, should the cursed spell not fly true.”

Rowan laughed and stepped toward him. She touched the skin of his arm near the fresh cuts that matched her own, sending a small surge of power through his skin. “Take a breath, Lord Giles. The Queen appreciates your obedient service. You were unable to offer me a better suggestion. Neither you nor Kiernan was able to promise me that any attempt to retrieve my brother would meet with anything but disaster. In the past you have praised me for my initiative.”

“You possess an extremely Queen-like capacity for shouting orders,” Rupert agreed. He determinedly ignored the warmth that crawled from his wrist, along his arm, to the base of his throat. _More work to be done there,_ he thought. When she was working with her talent, Rowan had a tendency to leak like a sieve unless her whole attention was engaged.

Several of the dogs grumbled again. Rupert heard small, muffled sounds the guards’ boots made against the rock as they calmed the animals. He heard Kiernan’s softly-accented voice, but couldn’t see any of their company outside the circle. The night over the Ridge was one of the darkest he’d ever seen. Although he didn’t think the sky held any high cloud cover, no stars were visible.

Inside the circle Rupert had drawn with blood, herbs and bonedust, there was light of a kind. Gray light, like pre-morning when night first begins to lift her skirts. A sharper wind whipped into their skin, sending small pebbles rattling around the interior circumference of the circle’s boundary.

“Cold. So cold.” Rowan shivered and stood so close that the line of her body touched him. “What do you think will come through the void? A handsome champion? A fabulous hunting beast that will answer to my call?”

“The proper time for wondering about a spell’s result is _before_ you construct it.” His entire body vibrated to the power around them. 

_coming coming coming turning touching aligning crossing_

Rupert heard Rowan gasp, and knew the same chaotic surges of power disoriented her senses.

“Lord Giles! Revenants!”

He barely heard Kiernan’s shout above the howl of wind inside the circle. It was warning only, not a request for orders. Rupert knew that Kiernan, his guards and hounds, would handle any situation outside the circle without their help.

“Rupert. Look.” Rowan’s fingers clamped down over his cut arm, bringing fresh blood to the surface.

Smoke, or wind, or some substance from the void, Rupert wasn’t sure what created the ring of vortex-like apparitions forming around them. Deafening sound was displaced by a silence so complete Rupert could hear his own heart beat.

“So many,” Rowan whispered into the silence. “What have we done?”

It was a question Rupert had been asking himself since he was old enough to understand the nature of his world.

“What did you _think_ we were doing, my Queen?”

 

**SPIKE: THE END**

_It was the best apocalypse he had ever seen._

Seemed as good a time as any to play the final hand, surrender the last kitten in his basket and push away from the table. Call it a night. Fire and power burned through skin, flesh, bone. Searing. Cleansing. Destruction and creation.

“I mean it! I gotta do this.” Spike wanted to live long enough to see her gone. See her safe.

Buffy took his hand, and there was fire everywhere. “I love you.”

Grand words to hear on your death bed. Spike had a moment’s wistful regret that they hadn’t been spoken under more intimate conditions. “No, you don't. But thanks for saying it.”

The world came apart around them. She needed to get out alive, to keep fighting. “Buffy, go! I want to see how it ends.” Vision flared into a uniform scarlet inferno. In the apocalyptic moments that followed, Spike had the impression that her fingers were once again entwined with his. 

It ended with the sensation that everything he was had been jammed into a cannon and fired on a high trajectory aimed at eternity. 

It ended in a universe of cold, pain-free light.

 

**MINA: THE KILLING BLOW**

_Scent and memory brought her to the surface moments before she would naturally have risen._

The scent belonged to a man dead many years. The memory was that of a misguided, valiant, dying friend.

"For my grandfather and father. For the noble gentleman, Quincey Morris, whose dying words may now be brought to fullness. _Now God be thanked that all has not been in vain! See! The snow is not more stainless than her forehead! The curse has passed away!_ It is a blessing he did not know how wrong he was. Find peace at last, madame Mina.”

It was a Van Helsing.

Mina struggled to rise. Her eyes opened, her fangs extended. Silver chains with crosses bound to the links criss-crossed the opening to her repose. 

Above her, the Van Helsing’s hand fell in slow motion toward a heavy wooden hammer aimed at the stake resting against her chest.

She would have changed, would have flown, but other countermeasures had evidently been employed by the third-generation hunter.

In her old bones Mina knew it would be a killing blow.

 

**RIDDICK: OUT OF THE FRYING PAN**

_“Keep your hands on your head. Feet apart. Don’t move a muscle, ya motherless crim.”_

Life was just a series of frying pans, Riddick thought. Behind him the little skiff settled and creaked in the dreadnaught's massive bay, leaking odors that told him he’d barely made it to this particular frying pan. 

The four goons wearing justice badges that faced him were spooked, even though they were armed and he wasn’t.

“Gonna slap your ass into cryolock. Then maybe we dump your can into netherworld storage. Maybe miscode your casefile. By the time they find you, won’t be nothin’ left but freezer-burned meat.” The badge with the most rank paced nervously in back of his men, ranting. “If I read your file right, no one will mind.”

“I’d mind.” Riddick turned his head and coughed. Odors from the skiff were getting stronger. The knowledge that a man could scuttle an entire battle fleet into another dimension, save a universe, and still be considered a criminal almost roused him out of the numb fatalism that had ruled his actions since Jack’s -- Kiera’s -- death.

“If you’re going to put me in lock, can I have a kool first? Been a long time without.”

“Do I _look_ like an accommodation worker?” The badge took took several steps closer, careful not to put his body into the line of fire. “How long it been, crim?”

Riddick watched the little wastesucker take a kool from his utility pouch and scratch it to light with a flick of fingernail. It was cheap smoke, service issue. Riddick took an exaggerated breath and flexed the muscles in his arms and chest.

The badge’s eyes traveled over his arms, down the length of his legs. 

“Smells good. Last time was back in slam. Share that one with me, and maybe I could share something with you.” Riddick shifted his weight and made a motion with his pelvis.

Someone choked off a laugh. 

“Share this.” The badge's face had turned rosy purple with warring emotions: lust, rage, humiliation. He took an involuntary step closer, spat, and flicked the kool away. The glowing tip went flying past Riddick’s ear, toward the skiff. 

Even through closed eyelids under goggles the blast was overwhelmingly bright. After the first second of impact there was no sensation of heat or cold, no perception of light or dark. Some part of Riddick understood that every molecule of mind and matter previously defining his existence was surfing a tsunami toward oblivion. One final coherent thought coalesced before speed became all.

_Not the worst ride I've ever taken._

 

**ANITA: SOMETHING'S COMING**

_“Get the kids out. Now.”_

The blood on her hands was the color of night. “I’m trusting you with this, Bernardo. Whatever’s coming will have to go through me to get you. And if you’re not here -- it won’t be an issue.” 

“And Edward?” Bernardo White Horse already had Edward's daughter in his arms. He stood poised, ready to run, one hand on the son's shoulder.

Anita spared a glance at the unconscious man at her feet, then turned her attention to their surroundings. “I’ll get him out after I kill the monster.”

“Later, then. Good luck.” Bernardo pushed the boy ahead of him into the dark.

Anita stood over Edward’s body and waited. Something was coming through the brush, bringing magic that ran over her skin on little centipede feet. She held the submachine gun ready, working to keep her breathing slow and shallow. Rank smells of blood and ground meat surrounded her like a fog.

When the quetzalcoatl arrived, it was on them in less than the wink of an eye. A flurry of teeth and feathers was the last thing Anita saw as the gun was knocked from her hands and something slammed into the center of her body, throwing her to the ground next to Edward. Sharp pain lanced through her temple, brilliant and unformed in her sudden blindness.

 _Edward!_ Anita forced her hands to grope for the gun. Nothing metallic met her questing fingers, but one hand closed over Edward's arm and held on tight. Buffeting wind made it strangely impossible to take a full breath.

"Kill us already," Anita tried to shout. She didn't know if anything heard the words. Consciousness flickered, then did a slow fade.

 

**ES: TWO FREAKING NAMAZU**

_“It’s not required, but it is traditional.”_

Es Ringwald stood under the spread of ancient oak trees and watched her companion strip down to the skin.

“Since it’s not required, I’ll participate in my current attire. T-shirt and shorts. Skyclad is fine for you, Fawn . . . but I’m just a visitor.” 

Skyclad really was fine for Fawn. Not everyone worshipping around the pond that night was as picturesque. It didn’t matter, of course. There was a purity, a sincerity in the faces around her that made Es feel out of place in her clothing.

“They’ve been there for about two years now,” Fawn whispered. “We think they literally dropped out of the sky during the Weird Night.”

“And what exactly does the coven want me to do?” A heady smell of water plants and muck came off the dark water. Es filled her lungs with the earthy scent.

“They want something,” Fawn said, pointing out over the water. “Maybe you can find out what they want.”

“Holy cowfish.” In the dark they gleamed like ancient ivory polished by moonlight. Their barbels were yards long. Their mouths were big enough to swallow a whole pig. “You have two Namazu in a pond. Two freaking Namazu in a pond.”

“What does that mean?” Fawn sounded apprehensive. A murmur went through the coven. “We thought they were some kind of catfish.”

The largest one eased up toward shore. It looked at them with the serene face of a catfishy Buddha.

“They’re _some kind_ of catfish,” Es said. “Mythological catfish creatures. Five hundred years or so from now they’ll be ten times that size. They’ll also be dragons.”

“Oh.” Fawn’s voice sounded small and awed. “So they want . . . “

“A bigger fucking pond.” Es started to laugh. She held out her hands and began to wade into the water. “I never thought I’d see anything like you.”

Fawn grabbed her shoulder. “Es. I don’t think you should go near them.”

“I have to touch them.” Those deep red eyes called to her, sent an invitation. The catfish backed away as she came, staying just out of reach.

“Es! Please . . .”

They were waist deep when the Namazu twisted away in a boneless, sinuous movement. As it dived for deeper water its huge white tail slapped the surface of the pond. Water cascaded over them, a wet avalanche obliterating the night sky.

Es felt her feet slip in the pond muck. Fawn grabbed her shoulders as she went under. And under, and under . . .

 

**RUPERT: HOME, WITH ALL POSSIBLE SPEED**

"Merlyn save us."

There seemed to be five women and three men. And Rupert didn’t think they were all human, by a long stretch of any definition of the word.

“Giles? Willow? What’s going on? What’s with the page-boy ‘do?”

As far as he could tell in the charcoal light, the speaker was a slight, blonde girl. Or woman, Rupert amended. Her voice had made her seem younger.

“How does she know you?” Confronted by the results of their spell, Rowan’s voice betrayed her inexperience and uncertainty. She sounded fully as uncertain as Rupert felt.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen her before. Nor any of the others.” Rupert raised his voice as one of the women took a step toward the circle’s edge. “Do not leave the circle yet. Any of you.”

“Or?”

It was a man. Rupert was nearly sure of his humanity, although his eyes were very wrong. “There’s a line of protection about us. Our men are fighting revenants beyond it. Let them finish their work before we break the circle.”

“We have to get to a hospital. I think that means going through your circle. Can I get some help?”

Human? Rupert shuddered. The small, dark-haired woman had the darkest aura he’d ever perceived. But, he decided with a moment of clear sight, no real evil stained her soul. The magic that colored her was neutral, almost elemental.

“Hos-pi-tal? What is that?” The man at her feet had a wooden stake jammed into his back. Yet he was human. Rupert shook his head. “He needs to be healed.”

“Yes. The hole in his back. The leaking blood. The near death condition,” the dark-haired woman said sarcastically. “Hospital. Doctor. Transfusion. Surgery. Now.”

“We can stop the blood loss. We’ll have to get him back to the freehold before attempting further treatment,” Rupert said. "My lady . . ."

“Excuse me. Could my friend have your cape?”

It hadn’t escaped Rupert’s notice. The tall, exquisitely formed, naked woman trying to hide her body behind a shorter woman. Both human? Both soaking wet. He removed his cape, bowed, and offered it to the one who had spoken. She was barely clothed herself, in strange garb that looked much like undergarments.

“Thank you.”

A revenant rushed past them, closely followed by a hound and two guards. They almost brushed the circle.

“That’s a vampire. They’re fighting vampires.”

And they’d brought two more vampires to their world, it seemed. Rupert frowned as he tried to make sense of the auras arrayed before him. The blond male’s aura was the most contradictory and confusing thing he’d ever tried to read. He was a vampire, though, Rupert felt sure. 

The tall dark-haired woman who had not yet spoken -- she was closer to what he expected of a vampire. But there were unsettling differences.

“Edward is dying. We’re going to a hospital. Now.” 

The small brunette woman’s force of will hit Rupert across the circle, staggering him with its brutal command.

“I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t in the middle of nowhere a few seconds ago. Where do you think the nearest hospital might be?” The young blonde woman crouched down beside the man’s body. “Stake. Not a good thing. Get your butt over here, magic Giles. What do we do?”

“Lord Giles. Call Kiernan. Break the circle. We’re going home with all possible speed.” Rowan gave him a push. “I’ll look to the man.”

It would have been simplest to just brush his boot across the circle’s outer line. Mindful of the results of their labor, Rupert said the few words of release and binding first. There was an immediate sense of power so vast and dark that it stole the breath from his lungs. It took a moment before Rupert could force himself to speak. With the circle’s dissolution the night seemed darker than before they’d begun the spell. 

“Ki--Kiernan.” 

“I think we got them all.” Kiernan was beside him, stained knife in hand. “A good night’s work, Lord Giles.”

“Where’s Little Bill? We have an injured man.”

“I’ll get him.”

“You got any flashlights? Torches? Anything? Too much dark around here.” The blonde girl peered up into his face. “Maybe Willow could do one of those light-ball spells.”

“Willow.” Rupert frowned down at the girl, followed the direction of her gaze. “Are you speaking of Queen Rowan?”

“Queen? Yeah. Right. And I’m Empress Buffy of Bufflandia.”

“I’ve slowed his heart, and put him deep into healing sleep.” Rowan took off her own mostly ornamental cape and draped it over the shoulders of the partially clothed damp woman. “That’s all that can be done here. Let us depart -- now.”

Rupert faced the results of their spell. It was disturbing to feel them in the dark, to see diamond bright points glint from strange eyes. “You --”

“Riddick.”

“Riddick. You have good night vision?” 

“You might say that.” 

Rupert heard what seemed like inappropriate amusement in the man's deep, not unpleasant voice. “If you would, please help guide the others down the mountain.” 

“Those things the worst monsters you’ve got around here?”

Rupert tensed. “Those things?”

“Behind you, to the left. Perched on the rock.”

The revenant had him pinned to the ground before he could draw his knife. Rupert’s lungs filled with the rank smell of filth and decay as the mad thing slobbered and ripped at his collar. 

“Nasty.” 

A series of solid thuds followed the surprisingly matter-of-fact observation, seeming to coincide with the abrupt absence of the revenant. The smell lingered even after the squirming weight blessedly disappeared. Rupert sat up, finding his knife at last. He could barely make out the young blonde’s figure as she energetically attacked the revenant. 

“Good with her feet.” Riddick gave him a hand up from the ground. “Stronger than she looks.”

“Meet Mr. Pointy . . .” Rupert heard. Then: “Why is it just laying there? Hey, magic Giles -- vampire, wood in heart, no poof. Explain this.”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking.” Rupert went to his knees next to the downed revenant, took his knife and began to work at detaching head from body. “Wood is good, but it's best to take the heart or the head. Or both.”

“And best of all is to burn the remains. However we’re not going to tell Nightworld where we are.” Rowan tugged at Rupert's arm. “Little Bill is here. Kiernan has the men organized. Let us go.”

“As my queen wishes.” Rupert smiled at her in the dark. Reaching a decision and acting was not a weak area of Rowan’s character.

“If we’re going hiking -- my friend is barefoot,” the woman wearing Rowan’s cape said.

“Rowan. Get Little Bob.”

 

They made good time down the ridge. The Queen’s dog-handlers, Little Bill and Little Bob, made light work of their burdens. The injured man remained limp and unresponsive; the woman wearing Rowan's cape made constant noise, small shrieks and entreaties to her friend to explain what was happening. Her friend, who seemed to find walking the trail barefoot was nothing to complain about, kept up a quiet, soothing flow of reassurance. The twins were as good as draft ponies, and more sure-footed. Rupert reminded himself to send their mother along a nice length of winter wool, and another note of appreciation for her family’s contributions to the well-being of the freehold.

The odd group of strangers listened carefully to the few directions that Riddick gave. There were no further incidents with revenants, no missteps, no accidental injuries. Considering they were traversing dangerous, unfamiliar terrain in nearly pitch black conditions, Rupert found this accomplishment heartening. 

It was easier to see when they reached the foothills.

“Pardon me. Lord Giles, was it?” 

The female vampire's voice had a soft accent that reminded him somewhat of Kiernan’s. Rupert had puposefully positioned himself near her on the trek down, trusting Kiernan would be watching the male. “Lady?”

“Mina. Mina Harker. Dawn is coming.”

“And you will need to be indoors.” Rupert didn’t elaborate on the obvious. “We should arrive at the freehold in time. But we’ll pick up the pace.”

No one complained. The guard led the way at a near run, with the dogs dancing circles around them. By the time they skirted the last tumble of stone and the path reached meadowland surrounding the freehold, dawn was near enough that they could see the silhouette of the freehold against the sky.

“What is that?” 

Rupert wasn’t sure who asked, one of the women. “deBerg Freehold. Largest bastian of free humans on the New Continent.”

“Wow. That’s a _big_ pile of rocks.” 

 

**BUFFY: DOESN'T LOOK MUCH LIKE HOME**

“Throw the great wall of China, a couple of pyramids, and several gargoyle-free cathedrals into a bag. Shake well and dump.” Buffy tried to make sense of the enormity of the structure they were approaching. Looming was very much the adjective that came to mind as they came closer to the grey and black, super-sized fortress.

“Going to need my blanket very soon, pet.” 

Spike hadn’t moved more than a couple of feet from her side since their . . . since their what? Teleportation, maybe. Or perhaps their fight with the First had opened a portal. It was weird looking at Giles’ face without his glasses, with hair so long it curled under where it touched the top of his shoulders. Willow’s double was somehow less disturbing. Ringlets suited her face. A face that bore a white scar near the temple. A scar that Buffy knew her own Willow didn’t have.

“Straight in the eastern gate. You’ll be under solid stone, and safe.”

And so weird to hear Giles speak without his lilty accent.

There were more men in dark uniforms guarding the gate. They straightened and bowed as Giles and Willow -- Rowan -- passed.

“Do you think she really is a queen?” Buffy whispered to Spike. 

“Anything’s possible.” He sounded abstracted, like he was thinking about something else.

Heat burned in Buffy's cheeks. They weren’t dead, and she had told him . . . but he hadn’t believed her. Buffy decided to hurry onto something else less likely to recall that _I love you._ “My skin itches. I feel all jumpy and twitchy. Especially when that little dark-haired woman gets near me.”

“Piece of work there,” Spike agreed. “Big ass story coming our way pretty soon.”

They followed magic Giles into a courtyard beyond the gate, then through one of five low, arched doorways ringing the courtyard. Buffy stroked the stonework appreciatively as they followed a slightly sloping corridor. She had become a connoisseur of underground stonework, and this stuff was prime. “Cut and laid like clockwork, no slime or moss, no potholes in the floor. Somebody has pride in workmanship,” she whispered to Spike. “I especially like the wall sconces with floaty candles.”

“Wonder how big this place is.”

"Big. Wonder why they needed to build such a big fortress."

Spike cocked an eyebrow. "Maybe to keep something big and bad outside?"

More corridors, more archways leading up and down, but no people. Buffy tried estimating the distance they’d walked, and came up with a mall's worth. A branch off the main corridor finally led them upwards, into a lofty, mostly empty room. Twin fireplaces blazed against the farthest wall from the doorway. Two smaller doorways opened to the right and left of their entry point.

“Doesn’t look much like home,” she said. Her voice sounded very small and lost to her own ears.

“I rather think home looks more like a pile of rubbish right now.”

Scenes from Sunnydale flashed across Buffy’s inner TV screen. _Her mom, sitting at the breakfast bar. Tara sharing a shy, secret smile with Willow. Angel curled on a stone floor. Riley’s haunted eyes, too full of understanding and resignation. Earth cracking. Sky falling._

"And Giles laughed when I suggested adding sinkhole coverage to our insurance."

"Everyone left got out. We were the last down there when the fire came. You know Willow and Giles will take care of Dawn."

And there, he'd nailed the question that mattered so much she hadn't let herself imagine a possible answer. Twisty and chaotic as their relationship had been, in the end Buffy thought Spike knew her better than anyone. Better than Xander, or Willow, or Giles -- even better than Angel. "I know they will. I know Dawn will be okay. It's just -- not dying lacks closure."

"Truth, love. But there's always a next time."

 

**RUPERT: EVERYONE WANTS ANSWERS**

It was the largest of the emergency quarantine rooms, situated just off the physic’s offices. Rupert looked around with satisfaction at the hastily assembled furnishings. The injured man was on a bed near the fire, being tended by two of the queen’s healers. Most of the strange company they had pulled from the void was seated on a collection of chaises and chairs his guards had scavenged from too many of the keep's empty living quarters.

He was interested to see that the male vampire was completely alert, relaxed next to the side of his companion. The female vampire had gracefully draped herself over a chaise and closed her eyes. She appeared to be deeply asleep.

“If you don’t mind, explanations can wait until this evening, when Lady Mina is fully awake. But I’d like an introduction to the rest of you . . . I am Rupert of Giles, tutor and counselor to our Virgin Queen Rowan deBerg . . .”

“Virgin? That’s totally as bizarre as queen.” The blonde girl rolled her eyes. “I’m Buffy Summers. I’ve got one of you back where I come from. One of her, too. And let me tell you . . .”

“Perhaps not, pet.” The male vampire touched her arm, and she stopped speaking. “Name’s Spike.”

“Spike. I like that.” Riddick stood with his back to one of the fireplaces, watching and listening. His disturbing eyes were now covered with something like a black mask. 

“Spike. You’re a vampire.” Rupert tried to phrase his question without giving offense. Vampires often took umbrage without reason. “You call Lady Summers _pet._ Do you consider her to be your property?”

He wasn’t prepared for the look on the vampire’s face, or the shout of laughter that came from Buffy.

“Not even in my dreams, mate.” Spike rummaged in a pocket and pulled out a small packet. He placed a slender white tube in his mouth, and what looked like an oblong black stone near the end. Fire leapt from the stone.

Rupert took a step backward. There had been no magic involved. He was looking at a vampire that could casually summon and handle fire, and draw it into his body.

“I’d take one of those.” Riddick stepped toward Spike. “Thanks.”

The aromatic smell of nicotania filled the air.

Rupert recovered some of his natural investigative drive. “May I look at one? That smells like pipe-weed.” 

“Sure.” Spike handed him one of the tubes. “If you aren’t going to smoke it, though, give it back. I’m wondering when I’ll get the chance to buy another pack.”

The tube was a wonder. This creature came from a culture that could create something as precious as the fine paper surrounding the herb . . . and burn it. “Fire doesn’t bother you?” Rupert hoped he’d asked the question casually. The growing awareness that the vampires the spell had brought them were very different from their own vampires was cause for concern.

“Bother me? It doesn’t scare me much, if that’s what you’re asking. Been on fire often enough,” Spike answered, blowing smoke high into the air on a long, sustained exhalation.

“I’m sure you’re all aware of the dangers of second-hand smoke.” The woman who wore his cape off the mountain was now covered by a simple tunic and trousers Rowan had supplied with a chest of miscellaneous clothing. “I won’t complain this time. I’m sure we’re all suffering from post-traumatic stress. But I would appreciate it if the smokers went outside in the future. My name is Fawn Reubens, by the way. I don’t know any vampires personally, although my best friend’s ex-boyfriend is a lycanthrope.”

“Welcome, Lady Fawn.” She was a remarkably attractive woman, if not the brightest candle in the sconce, Rupert thought. She also seemed very normal.

“Mr. Giles. I hate to bust up your little meet and greet, but Edward needs a transfusion. Now.” The small, dark-haired woman stalked across the floor toward him like an angry cat. “I am Anita Blake. Where are the real doctors?”

Rupert saw one of the healers shrug and raise her hands in despair. “Lara and Minette are the best healers we have. Lara --” he walked to the bed where they hovered over the injured man. “How is he?”

“Rowan completely inhibited the bleeding before he got here. We successfully removed the wooden object,” Lara said. “He is still under Rowan’s sleep spell. He is very weak. There was much loss of blood.”

“So give him more. This is worse than a third-world country.” Anita buzzed with power. It seemed to rise like a swarm of bees with her obvious anger, and the volume of her complaints.

Rupert tried to hide his revulsion at her suggestion. “I didn’t think he was a vampire. deBerg Freehold does not house vampires. We have no provision for feeding --”

“He’s not a vampire. How dense are you? Blood. Transfusion. Edward has lost too much blood. He needs more,” Anita said very slowly and distinctly, as if speaking to a child.

“We’re not in a third-world country. These people simply may not have the technology.” The remaining unintroduced woman, the one who had asked for his cape on the mountain, spoke in a soft voice.

“I don’t quite understand what she wants, Lady --?”

“Es. She wants you to take blood from one of us, and give it to him. Our healers use specialized equipment to do this. Think of a small bladder attached to a hollow tube and a sharp, hollow needle. Blood can be taken from a donor, and put into the vein of another.”

“Healers tried something similar in the past,” Lara said, shaking her head. “It usually killed the recipient outright.”

“He needs a matched blood-type.” Es looked to Anita. “Do you know his blood-type?”

“Shit. No.” She began to go through Edward’s pockets. “His wallet. Maybe it’s on the back of his license . . . O positive. I can’t help him. Anyone else?”

Rupert saw them look at each other.

“I don’t know my blood-type,” Fawn said. “It’s probably a good one, though.”

“Sorry,” Buffy said. 

Es sighed. “I’m O positive. Theoretically if we could figure out a way to transfuse him I could donate, but I’d have to talk to him first. A transfusion of my blood could have repercussions.”

Anita bit her lip and shook her head. “I know Edward. If you’re a carrier for lycanthropy . . . well, I’m afraid he might choose to die.”

“It may not come to that.” Minette smoothed her fingers over Edward’s forehead. “I’m going to deepen the sleep spell and put him into hibernation. It’s his best chance to heal.”

“If that’s as good as it gets . . .” Anita glared around the room. “How do we get out of this place, back to civilization?”

“Civilization.” Rupert considered that the word could mean something different to Anita than it did to him. 

A guard coughed behind him. Rupert turned. “Yes?”

“One of them has gone, Lord Giles. We tried to stop him, but he just disappeared.”

It hadn’t occurred to Rupert that he should post guards at all the doors. Impossible to blame the guard, when he hadn’t taken the time to think through their security arrangements. A quick glance around the room showed Riddick was missing. “Get Kiernan. Find the stranger. Make sure no one is harmed -- neither guest nor guardsman.” It seemed prudent to add the qualifier. Riddick had exuded a dangerous darkness only slightly less unsettling than Anita’s. “And set a guard at all doors into this place.”

“At once.” 

The guardsman bolted for the corridor, looking deeply unhappy. An unattended stranger in the freehold was outside everyone’s experience. Rupert turned to face his odd assembly of guests. “I prefer that none of you leave this room until we’ve had a chance to talk.” 

Expressions greeting his announcement ranged from polite indifference to irritated suspicion.

“What about bathroom facilities?” Buffy asked. “I don’t see any in this room.”

“Bathing room?” With the exception of the sleeping vampire, the women did look smudged and bedraggled. Rupert half-turned toward a guard. “A tub and heated water . . .”

“Yes, that would be good. But I have to pee,” Buffy said.

“Pee?” 

“Take a leak, drain the lizard, hit the head, piss, urinate.” Spike grinned at him.

“Oh.” Heat crept up Rupert's neck toward his face. “Sinjin --” He signaled to one of the guardsmen. “Escort this young woman to a guard station. In a short time we should have everything you need right here.”

“Everything _I_ need will never be here.” Anita paced between Edward’s bed and the chairs. “You didn’t answer my question about a return ticket on the weird express.”

“Until everyone is awake, and present, I’d like to postpone that conversation,” Rupert evaded. “Will you please wait that long?”

“I’m not good at waiting.” Anita walked toward him until she stood an arm’s length away. She stared up at him with dark, merciless eyes. Finally she nodded and backed off. “You’re more tired than I am. Get that tub of water here, and I’ll chill until nightfall. Then there will be answers.”

 

Rupert stood on the western watch tower as light dimmed over stone, land and water. It was impossible to see the sun set. Heavy cloud cover had accumulated all afternoon, with distant thunder sounding at intervals. A corkscrew breeze whipped his hair in all directions, driving damp, colder air down the neck of his cape. He could smell the lake, smell the fishy-woodsy odors coming from the boats gathered in the freehold’s harborage. Usually he would have been content to leave the upper levels to the guard on such a night. Tonight Rupert wanted to linger and evade his duties as Queen’s Mage.

Everyone wanted answers from him. Everyone was going to be disappointed.

“The Queen waits.” Sinjin stood respectfully in the entry to the parapet walk.

“Has the guard found our wandering guest?”

Sinjin clutched his belt and grimaced. “He found his own way back, Lord Giles.”

“Please tell Kiernan I will be along to speak with him later tonight.” 

Sinjin made a jerky bow, then bolted out of sight, back through the entry. 

Rupert sighed and followed. He didn’t blame the guard. He blamed himself.

A gust of rising wind grabbed his cloak and whipped it nearly off his shoulders. It would be a wild night, on many levels, Rupert told himself. Intense curiosity warred with apprehension when he thought of the people waiting for him in the quarantine room. 

Few sorcerers even contemplated working with the stuff of the void. That he had allowed himself to attempt Merlyn’s spell was a telling measure of his growing understanding of Rowan’s untapped reservoir of power.

Wild, incautious, untamed, heart of a warrior . . . Rowan had grown into a fierce, powerful woman during the last few years. Years he had spent scolding her as often as teaching her. 

_She needs another tutor,_ Rupert thought. _One more detached than I am._

When he entered the quarantine room, the first person he saw was the man Riddick.

“Looking for me?” 

There was a smug, easy quality to the question that immediately set Rupert’s teeth together. “You’re a stranger here. I’d be a fool to let you go wandering unwatched.”

“Not your choice to make. This time.” Riddick smiled.

The effect of the smile, with the man’s eyes and true expression covered by those black spectacles, was disturbing.

“Lord Giles. Everyone is present, and awake. May we begin?”

Rowan had chosen an armchair silhouetted by the fireplaces. To her left, Anita occupied a chair. Fawn and Es were seated on the chaise across from Rowan. Buffy and Spike were on the chaise to Rowan’s right. Mina took the chair next to them in the circle. Riddick lounged, back to the wall near the left-hand doorway, smoking another tube.

Rupert went to stand at Rowan’s side. He chose the right side, away from Anita.

“I waited. Now tell us how we get home.” Anita leaned forward. Her fingers dug into the chair’s arms.

“I -- I don’t quite know.” The answer's inadequacy was apparent in every face looking at him.

“That’s not good enough. Try again."

Rupert stiffened his backbone. “I can tell you why and how you came to be in this place. But I do not know why _you_ were selected by the magic. And I cannot yet tell you how the casting may be reversed.”

“So, tell us what you can,” Buffy said quickly, interrupting an incoherent noise of protest from Anita.

"Queen Rowan?" 

Rowan responded to Rupert’s light touch on her shoulder with a gracious, queenly nod that nearly made him roll his eyes. While her mother had died when Rowan was barely nine years of age, all the old Queen's mannerisms had been scribed into the daughter's extraordinary memory. Rowan had always used the mannerisms shamelessly. When she was young it had been amusing.

“Let me begin with why you are here. My only brother is being held by the Queens of Nightworld. Diplomacy is not a concept to which Nightworld responds. Force, either outright or by stealth, was judged by our military advisers to be a foolish risk of life. So I ordered Lord Giles to assay Merlyn’s spell of salvation. It was a last chance for us. For him.”

“Queens of Nightworld? Is that a country?” Buffy asked. “Sounds vampirey to me.”

“Nightworld is a Flock of Vampires, a territory, and a physical structure similar to deBerg ... built by humans native to this continent, long before the Years of Carnage,” Rupert said.

Buffy made a face. “I will not do well on the History 101 pop quiz here.”

“It seems to me that the world -- or worlds -- you all come from may be different from ours,” Rupert said. He saw Mina nod. “May I suggest that you each give us a brief description of the circumstances you were in before the spell activated, what your social status or profession might be. Such information would be helpful.”

“Don’t start with me,” Anita growled.

“I will begin. My name is Mina Harker. I am well over 100 years of age. I am a vampire. When your spell translocated me, I was about to receive a stake through my heart.” Mina met Rupert’s eyes with a calm, measuring gaze. “Van Helsing’s grandson would surely have succeeded in that action if not for your spell.”

“Van Helsing?” Spike sounded surprised. “I know a Van Helsing. Self-righteous old bugger chased Dracula around for a while. Drac’s ladies took care of him.”

“Oh?” Mina smiled, briefly exposing the tips of her canines. “Dracula is my sire. But Van Helsing lived to reproduce in my world. A shame, really.”

“We know from the skirmish with revenants that Buffy’s expectations for vampire behavior indicates a difference between her experience and ours,” Rowan said. “Perhaps a short diversion from introductions. If you would give our visitors a profile of our vampires, Lord Giles?”

Rupert rubbed the bridge of his nose. “If a human dies from blood loss due to a vampire bite, and has been tainted by the vampire’s own blood, the human will seem to return from death -- as a vampire. Does this hold true in your worlds?”

“Yes.” Everyone but Riddick either answered aloud, or shook their heads in affirmation.

“Don’t have vampires where I come from,” Riddick said. “Old Earthers do have the stories, but it’s all fairy tale. I’ve seen things that suck everything from blood, to guts, to energy from humans. Humans that get sucked on stay dead afterward, although once in a while something uses their shell to amble around in. Close enough?”

There was a brief silence. Rupert rubbed his nose and continued. “I hope we will have time later to speak of what you have witnessed, Riddick. Our vampires are potentially immortal, although practically the realities and politics of their existence take a toll. Vampires are faster than humans, stronger, and harder to injure. Wood in a vital organ -- the heart or brain -- does the best job dropping them. Silver will slow them down and hurt them. To render a vampire incapable of reanimating it is necessary to take the head or heart, preferably both, as Rowan said earlier. Burning the remains is practiced whenever possible.”

“I like my world better,” Buffy said. “Stake through the heart, poof, nothing left but dust. It’s very neat. Your vampires sound like our demons. Too much work disposing of the corpse after the slaying.”

“Demons?” Anita's thunderous face relaxed toward interest. “Demons from hell? You’ve killed those?”

“Maybe one from hell. But mostly our demons are kind of illegal aliens from other places that aren’t where we live.” 

Spike made a sound like a pig's snort. “Watcher crap, Slayer. Lots of demons have been around since humans were doin’ the shimmy in trees. Humans and demons, settlers and Indians . . . who’s to say?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t understand any of that.” Rowan frowned at Spike.

“Don’t worry about it. Spike goes all philosophical sometimes,” Buffy said. “Can your vampires do anything else, like fly? When I met Dracula . . .”

“You met him?” Mina’s blue eyes seemed to lose their color and flash to icy silver.

A shiver of cold ran down Rupert's back. For all her soft speech and languid movements, his wizard's sight had caught a swiftly revealed, then swiftly hidden flicker of raw, elemental fury at the female vampire's core.

“Once. Briefly. Staked him, but I don’t know how much good it did.” Buffy tugged at a stray bit of hair and bit her lip. “Dracula could fly, and turn into things. Spike said it was all a trick.”

“Bloody hypnotist,” Spike muttered.

“Shapechange? Our vampires can’t do that.” Anita shook her head. “In my world it’s the general rule that a vampire can’t be a lycanthrope, or any other kind of were-animal.”

“Our vampires cannot fly -- although some are capable of limited levitation -- and cannot shapechange,” Rowan said. “We once had werewolves and rare instances of other were-beasts.”

“Fawn, Es, do you have anything to add?” Rupert asked.

“I’m not interested in vampires,” Fawn said. “They’re not very nice.”

Rupert saw Es suppress a smile and pat her friend’s shoulder. “In our world vampires have been slowly integrating themselves back into mainstream human society. I think Fawn and I may be from the same place that Anita and her companion come from. There is a rather famous Anita Blake in my world.”

Anita glared at Es. “I prefer to use silver bullets and wood on vampires. Does this place have guns? Mine didn’t come with me, unfortunately.”

“Preindustrial culture,” Riddick said. “They burn stuff for power and light. Looms were the most advanced machinery I could find. Everything is custom -- handmade. And I miss _my_ guns more than you miss yours.”

“Impossible.”

“What is a guns?” Rowan's fingers found and dug into Rupert's arm. She was becoming irritated, a mask for the extreme disquiet that Rupert himself was feeling.

“If I understand the context, probably weaponry, my Queen." Rupert removed her fingers from his arm. "Our guests can elaborate later. Let us return to the introductions. Buffy?”

“Buffy Summers. Vampire Slayer. The chosen one, yada yada.”

“Like they know what yada yada means.” Spike rolled his eyes. “She was born with a mission: kill vampires. Added a bit to her job description as she went along. Kills Big Evil, Medium Evil, and Little Evil when necessary.”

“Spike added to his job description, too. He has a soul.” Buffy crossed her arms and stared around the circle, challenging them, Rupert supposed, to contradict her.

“He feels . . . different.” Anita looked between Spike and Mina. “I recognize what she is. With him it's all mixed up.“

“Are you a sorcerer, Anita?” It would explain the darkness he saw around her.

“Reanimator. Vampire hunter,” Anita said reluctantly.

“Necromancer.” Rowan barely breathed the word. “Death surrounds you, but it is like a living, breathing thing where it touches you.” Rowan clasped her hands together so tightly that Rupert could see the knuckles of her fingers whiten. She was more agitated than the circumstances seemed to warrant. 

“She’s always killing something. Vampires call her the Executioner,” Fawn said. She kept her eyes focused on a spot away from Anita.

"And your injured companion, Anita?" Rupert jumped into the uncomfortable pause after Fawn's statement.

"Edward. Edward Forrester. You might say he's a hunter of preternatural vermin." Anita's eyes flickered back over her shoulder at Edward's unmoving body. "Vampires on my world call him Death."

A nearly inaudible vibration of sound came from Riddick. Without looking, Rupert somehow knew the man was smiling. 

“I was at a meeting of Fawn’s coven when we were relocated.” Es said after a moment. “I’m Es Ringwald -- a businesswoman. I sell tropical fish and birds. I try not to kill anything.”

“Coven? Are you a witch, Fawn?” Rowan frowned. “I don’t sense any power coming from you.”

“I celebrate the Goddess in All,” Fawn said, tilting her chin and looking down her nose at Rowan. “I am _not_ a witch. Witches do not embrace the totality of the pansexual, omniconscious, transorganic reality of the Goddess. They just try to interfere with those things.”

“Riddick?” Rupert moved along quickly, sternly suppressing the urge to laugh aloud at Rowan's expression. She was trying to work out whether she'd just been insulted. “Your observations about our culture tell me that you must come from quite a different world.”

“Maybe.” Riddick still lounged against the wall. His deep, husky voice carried the same insolence his posture conveyed. “You might say I’m between careers at the moment. I’ve fought my share of monsters, if that helps shape up a pattern that’s developing here. Extraordinary creatures, but not supernatural.” 

Rupert nodded. It did seem as if there was some underlying sense to the people Merlyn’s spell had translocated. His wizard's discipline sorted and arranged information from, and observations of, their . . . champions? Guests?

Riddick would be a difficult man to like, or trust. Taken as a whole the rest of the group did little better. Individually, well he could like Buffy, there was a brightness to her that warmed him when he watched her and listened to her odd conversation. Es seemed quietly humorous, but her essence continued to evade him when he turned his sorcerer’s perceptions on her. Anita was dangerous. Mina was dangerous. Spike was an unknown thing, a souled vampire but still, had to be dangerous. Fawn was . . . well, Fawn had the potential to be an irritant.

“Again I’d like to ask about going home.” Anita left her chair and paced toward the fireplace. “Edward’s barely alive. He couldn’t help with any rescue. And I won’t help while he needs proper medical attention.”

“Lady Harker. You stated that when the spell activated you were in peril of your life,” Rowan said. “What was your situation, Lady Buffy?”

“Please. No lady here.” Buffy frowned at them. “We were having our annual end-of-the-world party. Spike was on fire, and I think a large amount of stone and rubbish had just crashed down on my head.”

“Sir Riddick?”

Riddick laughed. It was a sound that made all the women in the room look at him, then look away. Even Rowan looked, Rupert realized with some unease.

“I’ve been called a lot of things. Never sir. My skiff blew up. Pretty sure everything on that side of the ship went into vacuum. That would have included me.” 

“Space travel? You were on a space ship?” Buffy bounced on the couch. “Cool.”

A strong impression of despair flushed Rowan's aura. It _was_ a lot to absorb, to order into useful understanding, Rupert thought. “The void crosses many boundaries, my queen. What about you, Anita? Were you in peril when the spell activated?”

She pointed at Edward’s body. “Yeah. I’m usually in peril. I was guarding Edward, waiting for a big-ass monster to show its ugly face. I think . . .” she sighed, shook her head and returned to her chair. “It hit me in the head. I saw stars.”

“Another pattern,” Riddick said. “Were the two pretty ladies nearly killed?”

“Not even close.” Es stared at Riddick with narrowed eyes. “We were standing in a pond, looking at a pair of catfish. Fawn and I were both under water when the spell moved us, in no danger of getting anything but soaked to the skin. And since that’s all Fawn was wearing --”

“Almost a pattern.” Mina licked her lips and smiled. “I don’t think there’s any going back for us, Anita. Perhaps the spell picked us, in part, because we would have been dead in our own places.”

“I’m not accepting that,” Anita said between clenched teeth. “You were already dead. I wasn’t.”

“Dead again.” Buffy sighed. She wound her arm around Spike’s and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I’m so tired of dying.”

“I know, love.”

They were close. Lovers. Rupert felt shock prickle through his skin. A startled shiver moved through Rowan's flesh, and he knew she’d made the same connection. These people were too different to help them. 

“You said the queens of Nightworld have your brother.” Mina nibbled on the tip of one pointed nail. “Does this mean that vampires took him?”

Rowan shook her head. “Yes.”

Not the exact truth, but close enough, Rupert thought. The reality, that the young prince had left deBerg with eager willingness, was a truth with which Rowan still wrestled.

“You believe he is still alive?”

“Of course. Even if he wasn’t half of the deBerg throne, he’s a healthy young man. Only a revenant would harm a healthy human,” Rupert said.

They looked at him. Six people with nearly identical expressions of incomprehension. 

“Your vampires need blood to live, right?” Spike asked.

“Of course.”

“Vampires kill humans. It’s what they do,” Buffy said. “Don’t your vampires kill every chance they get?”

“Even the best-intentioned vampire is a danger to humans,” Es added. “Their control seems to last only so long before some incident occurs.”

“Flock Law is generally obeyed. Wanton killing is rare, even on the Old Continent, I understand. There are so few humans left . . .” Rupert trailed off. The shock in their faces was deeply unsettling.

“So vampires outnumber humans here?” Buffy frowned. “And exactly how few is few?”

Rupert glanced at Rowan. She looked totally amazed by the question. Rupert framed his answer slowly, carefully. “Estimates are all we have. The Isle of Merlyn is still free. They number perhaps 50,000 souls. The flocks on the Old Continent keep slave humans whose numbers have grown in the last century since Flock Law was enacted. Here on the New Continent there are four freeholds, of which deBerg is the largest. We number less than 800 souls in deBerg,” Rowan said. Her eyes roamed the group, watching each face for reaction. “Nightworld is one of three major New Continent flocks that keep slave humans. We believe they have only a few thousand humans in their clutches.”

“Slave humans?” Anita’s mouth thinned. “Vampires keep humans like cattle, is that what you’re saying?”

“Well, of course . . .” Rupert found himself at a loss to finish the sentence, given the expressions on the faces of their guests.

“They’re all free humans, Rupert.” Rowan leaned forward in her chair, fists balled in her lap. “Who rules your worlds?”

“Politicians, I guess,” Buffy said.

“For a while, I did,” Riddick said, lazily. “The job’s overrated.”

No one had anything else to say for several seconds. It was almost a relief to have Kiernan burst into the room without so much as a barely sketched bow at his queen.

“Rowan girl.” Kiernan’s thickened accent, and the fact he hadn’t forgotten to address Rowan as “Lady Queen” for over a year, betrayed his state of mind. “We’ve an envoy at the western gate. From Nightworld. I had no instructions.”

“We didn’t know, Kiernan.” Rowan’s lips firmed into a tight, straight line. “It’s not totally unexpected. By law they owe us word of Raimund’s status.”

“Who have they sent?” Only a handful of Nightworld’s elite might be chosen for such a delicate mission, Rupert thought with growing apprehension.

“A flight of five with Lord Wynd presenting as speaker.” Kiernan gripped the hilt of his sword with white-knuckled force. “Upon my authority we brought them through the gate. They wait in the courtyard, with my best men on guard.”

“You did well, Kiernan.”

Rowan’s eyes bored into his. She looked as pale as a newly drained donor. “Rupert.”

“The queen will greet them in the audience chamber.” There would be no time to arrange for a more formal audience. Which meant that, although they had undoubtedly planned it this way, the vampires would be disdainful and insulted by lack of pageantry.

“I’m not dressed for an audience. They knew we’d be unready. Can they know what we did last night?”

“You are a Queen. Clothing does not matter.” He watched her push a curl from her eyes and straighten her bodice and sleeves. He wanted to tell her that she could welcome them in rags, and still outshine any vampire Lady in the world. “They would have been already on their way to deBerg when we were fishing in the void. It is coincidence they arrived now. I do not doubt the lack of formal notification of their envoy is meant to find us unready.”

“Then Nightworld perceives a necessity to put us at a disadvantage.”

“Of course.” Rupert smiled. “Let them try. Kiernan --”

“I will bring them.” Kiernan bowed and left at a near run.

“Let us give them something other than my clothing to think about. I want some of our guests with us.”

“I don’t know if that would be wise.” The idea unsettled Rupert, made him grasp for reasons why it would be a bad idea.

“Me! I’ll come.” Buffy jumped to her feet. “I want to see if Lord Windy is who I think it is.”

“He is one of the worst of them.” Rupert shook his head as Spike rose to stand near Buffy. “I’m sorry, neither you nor Lady Mina can accompany us. They know we don’t allow vampires to remain in the freehold. They would find your presence too disturbing. If they were to ask you to state flock allegiance, it could cause a problem.”

“Buffy is a good choice.” Rowan looked around the circle. “Anita. Will you walk with me and hear for yourself the voice of my enemy?”

Anita shrugged. “I can listen.”

“And Riddick.” The man should pose a pretty problem even to Lord Wynd, Rupert thought, giving in, as usual, to Rowan's wishes.

“Anything we should know about these vampires?” Riddick left his spot by the wall and joined them near the left-hand doorway.

“Lord Wynd was a necromancer when he was alive. It is said that dying changed his powers, but we don’t know exactly how. He can command obedience with his gaze; do not meet his eyes. Lady Swift has both eye and voice command abilities, and can stimulate desire in an unprepared, unwary human without physical contact.”

“A siren with overactive pheromones.” Buffy grinned. “Maybe Riddick should stay here.”

“Do I look like the kind of man who would be affected by pheromones?” Torchlight glinted off Riddick’s eyegear. He smiled broadly at Buffy.

“Yeah. Definitely.” 

Across the room Spike glared at Riddick. Mina watched them all with calm, unreadable eyes. Fawn seemed to be dozing against Es’ shoulder. As he crossed gazes with her, Es nodded at Rupert and held her thumb up. 

“We’ll be waiting,” Es said. “You’ll do fine. You’re loaded for bear.”


	2. Chapter 2

**BUFFY: LORD WYND**

“What did she mean? About loaded for bear?”

“You’ve got big guns, big ammo.” Buffy was getting used to hearing his voice without the accent. She followed magic Giles at a run down the winding corridor. Rowan was ahead of them, with her skirts hiked up to show a pair of shoes that Buffy was sure even _she_ could never run that fast in.

“Again the guns.”

“Means you’re well-equipped to go hunting,” Anita said unexpectedly. She ran easily behind them, with Riddick at her side. “I wish it was true. I need my guns.”

“Guns are good. You can get too dependent on them, though,” Riddick said. “Real hunter can find a weapon anywhere.”

“I hope you’re right. My personal belief is that the mind is the keenest weapon humans have. Even so, we don’t usually come off terribly well in Nightworld audiences,” Rupert said.

Buffy heard the frustration and resentment in his voice. It made her want to hug him. This guy was definitely her Giles.

Rowan slowed to a walk. “Compose yourselves.” The run had brought bright color to her face. “This is a formal occasion. You may answer questions. Keep answers simple. It is not in our interest to let Nightworld know anything meaningful about your presence here.”

Rupert bowed and offered his arm. “My Queen. Keep your temper.”

“Of course, Lord Giles.”

Rowan’s face and eyes were luminous as she laughed up at him. Buffy took a step backward and stared at the people that looked so much like the best friends she’d ever had.

“She -- he --” Buffy muttered under her breath as the pair turned away and led them toward an oversized door flanked by four guardsmen.

“Ain’t it cute.” Riddick’s breath fanned the skin on her neck.

Buffy jumped away, rubbing her neck. “Don’t do that.”

“What are you two talking about?” Anita frowned at Riddick. 

“Magic Giles and Rowan. They’ve got the hots for each other,” Buffy whispered.

Anita shrugged. “So?”

“They look like people you already know.” Riddick stayed close to her side as they walked through the doorway. “But they aren’t people you know.”

“Like but different,” Buffy agreed. “It’s weird.”

Weirder still was standing in the center of the room they entered.

“Thought it might be. Wesley. But not looking so good.” 

The room Rowan called an audience chamber was about the size of a school gym. Tapestries hung on the walls like over-sized school banners, and wooden bleachers against one wall contributed to the impression that they’d entered a school gymnasium. Instead of backboards, there was a tall throne-like seat against one wall, and a double doorway at the opposite end of the chamber. Rowan walked briskly to the throne.

Giles turned back toward them and gestured at the bleachers. “Please, seat yourselves.”

They had to cross between the throne and the group of vampires. Buffy tried to look sideways at the man whose ivory-colored, cruel face looked so much like Wesley Wyndham-Price. He ignored her and watched Anita with intense, dead black eyes. Unexpectedly Buffy felt a shiver quiver through her skin.

“Spidey-sense all a-tingle,” Buffy muttered to Riddick as they sat down. “There stands a thing that badly needs to be staked.”

“Our two look more alive, and a lot more human.” Riddick’s breath tickled her ear. “If you discount the fact neither of them breathe. That lot just look dead.”

“You noticed that? About the breathing?” Buffy gave him a look. “You’re a noticing kind of guy. Use your eyes, use your ears, and then . . .”

“Use your feet.” Riddick grinned, head tilted down, light glancing off his dark lenses. “I’ve noticed you’re good at that.”

Buffy shrugged. Their quiet conversation had drawn the attention of the creature who bore a strong resemblance to the Wesley Wyndham-Price she remembered.

“Strange witness you assemble for such an auspicious occasion.” Lord Wyndham’s eyes were black tarpits. “The record needs to stand clear. Introductions are necessary, Queen Rowan deBerg.”

Rowan tilted her head at Giles, just a fraction of a nod. Her eyes never left the group of vampires.

“Let the record show that Lady Summers, Lady Blake, and Lord Riddick bore witness to a message from Nightworld on this even.” Giles had taken several steps away from Rowan, and gestured as he introduced each of them. “All human. All capable of recounting these events.”

Lord Wyndham glided toward the wooden bleachers, each step slow and deliberate, his eyes fixed on Anita. 

Buffy noticed the rest of the vampires stayed in a close group. Their blank, pale faces were still turned toward Rowan.

“Not your own people, surely, Lord Giles. I have no knowledge that deBerg numbers a necromancer among its citizens.”

Mr. Pointy was still in her duster pocket. Buffy’s fingers itched to reach for the smooth bit of sharpened wood. She sensed Anita was having a similar reaction. The small, dark woman got quickly to her feet as Wyndham approached.

“I’ll bet there’s all kinds of stuff you don't know,” Buffy said. She remained seated, casually resting her elbow on her knee, chin on the palm of her hand.

The tarpit eyes jerked away from Anita’s face to her own, and tried to suck her into their depths.

“Insolence, and a lack of fear and respect. An odd combination in such a small, defenseless human.” The hard, almost military quality of Wyndham’s voice changed to a purring, intimate intonation. “What a pretty thing you are. Come here.” He held out his hand.

“That’s a cool trick. The black-hole swirly thing you’re doing with your eyes.” Buffy smiled and shook her head. “I’m not the human you’re looking for. Move along.”

The light in the audience chamber seemed to dim, to drain away toward darker corners. One of the female vampires made a hissing sound.

“Lord Wynd.” 

The power of command in Rowan’s voice echoed through the audience chamber. Torches flared and jumped into brighter flame. Buffy felt raw power move through the air, and knew that this woman who looked so much like Willow Bright had all the power of Willow Dark at her disposal.

“What was that?” Riddick asked against her ear.

“Magic.” Buffy rubbed her ear. “Can I just mention a personal space issue?” 

He made a sound, deep in his throat that could have been a chuckle. It was odd, but in spite of how dangerous Riddick felt to her, Buffy almost welcomed his closeness. He reminded her of Spike in many ways. Or maybe a big junkyard dog with a penchant for sniffing things.

“deBerg Freehold acknowledges the presence of Nightworld envoy Lord Wynd. We regret we were not informed of your visit in advance, so we could welcome you less informally.” Rowan’s voice was cool and impersonal.

“The night we are _welcomed_ into deBerg Freehold remains a time that exists only in the most optimistic imagination.” Wynd gave them a long look, then moved back into formation with the other vampires.

Rowan’s lips curved into a small, feral smile. “As required by your Flock Law, I believe you bring me a message from your Queens.”

“Rowan deBerg, primary authority representing the human colony known as deBerg Freehold, we hereby proclaim and publish the desire and intent of Raimund deBerg, living human male, to embrace existence as a child of Queen Katerine Lockley, thereby pledging his allegiance to Nightworld Flock.” Lord Wynd’s eyes traveled from Rowan and Giles to the bleachers. “Flock Law is fulfilled. Five humans bear witness to this proclamation.”

“Lord Wynd. We acknowledge Nightworld’s notification of Raimund deBerg’s intention. You may return to your queens with this message . . .” 

Rowan left the throne. When she was within arm’s length of the vampire she stopped.

“Resolve face,” Buffy whispered to Riddick. “They’d better take her seriously.”

“Flock Law provides that deBerg Freehold may lodge an argument against the petitioner’s intent at the Embracing,” Rowan said. “We intend to exercise this right. You will make arrangements for our attendance. This audience is concluded.”

"You will come to Nightworld?" Wyndham laughed, a cold, rasping sound that brought similar noises from the other vampires.

"As Flock Law provides." Rowan stared him down, red specks dancing in her eyes. "Return to your Queens and post the banns."

 

**RUPERT: AURAS OF POWER**

Rupert swallowed and tried to ignore the surge of discomfort that enveloped him internally and externally. His stomach heaved, his skin seemed to shrink around his bones as if a chill wind had blown up his leggings. Even calling the void hadn’t caused Rowan to exude the power he sensed in the chamber. 

To his sorcerer’s sight, Rowan was a red and golden presence, aglow like the heart of a smith’s forge. Firepoints of light cascaded from every stray hair on her head, pushing back the dense psychic blackness that surrounded Wynd and his Flight. She was the brightest presence Rupert had ever seen -- surprisingly illuminated from another source of power that emanated from the group on the benches.

Before he’d learned to talk, Rupert had seen the people around him as colors. Pale colors. Mixed colors, like a palette of meadow grass and wildflowers. Mental disturbance, overwhelming joy or grief could darken or intensify the auras Rupert saw. Unusual talent could be perceived as brighter, stronger color.

These visitors, though . . . Rowan’s uncontrolled release of power had resulted in a spectacular response. Buffy was gold, pure gold. Riddick’s color was violet. And Anita’s nearly translucent silver-gray, shimmering light enveloped them all.

Wynd’s eyes had narrowed against the onslaught. “Your message will be conveyed.”

A message that went further than Rowan’s words.

“You look like you need a cup of warm milk, and an hour breathing the airs from one of Minette’s healing candles.” With the vampires’ quick exit, Rowan’s aura returned to normal. Her expression was serene, but tired. “And sleep, Rupert. We both need to marshal all our physical and mental strengths during the next few days.”

“I should be the one pointing that out.” Rupert rubbed the muscles at the base of his neck. It occurred to him that she had been subtly changing their relationship almost since the moment they’d learned of Raimund’s desertion.

“Settle our guests, then retire. Kiernan and his men do not need your supervision.” Rowan shifted her gaze toward the audience benches. “We still haven’t dealt with the question of feeding our vampires.”

“They both assure me it won't be a problem -- yet. I admit to some guilt and apprehension about leaving them secluded with our human guests,” Rupert said. “Neither of these vampires is bound by Flock Law.”

“Take them at their word. The rest of the group seems to.” Rowan yawned hugely. “I am more worried about pacifying the Guild Lords at tomorrow morning’s council. They will try to prevent me from going to Nightworld, you know this.”

“ _I’d_ like to keep you from Nightworld. Don't look to me for persuasive argument when the subject comes under discussion.”

Some of the fire returned to her eyes. “I make my own arguments, Lord Giles.”

Every line of her retreating body informed him of her disdain. Rupert sighed. Settle their guests, she’d said. “As you will, lady Queen.”

 

**SPIKE: CHOOSING TO FIGHT**

No one was knitting any raveled sleeves this night, Spike reflected. 

Buffy, Anita and Riddick were returned to their rooms by guard escort. In response to questions about what they had witnessed, Buffy's dramatic reenactment of the scene with vampires had uncovered more questions than she could answer. Anita said little. Riddick said nothing.

So far they had spent about 24 hours doing nothing but lounge, nap, and listen to poncy-Giles explain life in deBerg Freehold. The room air was too warm, close with the scent of aromatic flames in the fireplaces, and a lingering odor of strong herbs from the fish stew the humans had been served earlier in the evening. In Spike’s head it felt late, close to the time Buffy would be making her last patrol at home.

Riddick had taken his quick walk-about that morning, then slept most of the daylight hours like a dead thing. He was doing one-handed pushups now, as precise and tireless as a vampire. Getting ready to go walk-about again, if Spike knew anything at all about predators.

Mina and Es watched Riddick. It surprised Spike that he couldn’t tell what they were thinking about the display. Mina was as close to inscrutable as he’d ever seen in a vampire. And Es was -- Es was odd. She’d spent several hours dividing her time between soothing her ditzy friend, and listening to Anita rant about the lack of hospitals.

In Spike’s opinion the Edward bloke was probably better off with the healers.

“I can’t sleep. My feet want to be out patrolling.” Buffy squirmed on the chaise next to him, trying to wedge said feet up under his legs. “How long do they think we’ll stay put in here?”

At least Buffy wasn’t fixated on the Riddick Show.

“Don’t know. I’m ready for a stroll myself. And Bandit Boy’s going over the wall pretty soon.”

“Literally?” Buffy grinned at him, a quirky, happy Buffy-grin that slipped straight to his heart.

“There doesn’t appear to be much past these walls, love.” Spike saw the grin fade. It was replaced by an intent, thoughtful look and a shift of her eyes that told him, from experience, she was about to change the subject.

“Mina - when did you eat last? You told Giles it wouldn’t be a problem, but --” Buffy shrugged. “I think they’re avoiding the whole ‘feed the vampires’ issue.”

“I told him the truth. Although the desire is always present,” Mina’s gaze left Riddick and settled on Buffy. “You humans should be sleeping. Tomorrow they will be specific about what they want from us. We should, perhaps, take this chance to discuss our situation without the natives listening.” 

“Fawn’s sleeping.” Es yawned and pointed at one of the cots. “Should I wake her?”

“Not if you don’t mind translating for her later,” Buffy said, with a furtive glance toward the sleeping woman. “She sounded pretty cranky before you got her to lie down.”

Cranky. _There_ was a euphemism for bitch-in-full-cry, Spike thought.

“Spike, what about the guards?”

“Two at each door, all breathing pretty slow,” Spike said. He saw Mina nod.

“Both of the guards at the western door are nearly asleep. One was snoring for a few seconds.” Mina smiled. “Although it wouldn’t matter. I could leave without attracting undue attention.”

Riddick slouched over and lay full length on the floor with his feet pointed toward the fire, his head near Mina’s feet. Anita left Edward’s side and joined Es on the other chaise. 

They didn’t stare at Buffy. A simple thing, but Spike felt her relax against his side and make a small sound, a cross between a sigh and clearing her throat. He put an arm around her, and she didn’t pull away, didn’t protest. It occurred to him then that a fundamental shift in Buffy’s attitude, in their relationship, was underway. He squashed the thought with an interior cynical jibe. 

_Whipped tosser._

“They went looking for someone to fight their fight for them, and they got us,” Buffy said.

“And if we don’t want to fight their fight?” Riddick’s voice sounded warm and lazy. 

“That’s a good question. If we’re stuck here forever, this could quickly become our fight. If we have a chance at returning to our own places --” Buffy shrugged.

“It happened here. The thing humans fear most, that drives them to hunt us like game.” Mina inspected her nails. “There was an early turning point, that turned in favor of vampires. The result, a world nearly sucked dry.”

“Ecological disaster.” Es nodded. “Do we have any reason to believe that Lord Giles has shaded the truth about the state of his world?”

“Vampires in charge? Humans kept as cattle? Domestic animals nearly wiped out?” Buffy took a deep breath and held it in her lungs, then slowly exhaled. “I don't know. It could happen."

“Haven’t seen all of his world yet.” Riddick stood and stretched.

Alerted by a topographical change in Buffy's shirt, Spike glanced down and saw her nipples had perked to attention. He poked her in the ribs. "Hey."

“What? Shut up, Spike.”

Riddick’s face was as revealing as his covered eyes. “I have no reason to care about the choice a single man -- or monster -- has made in this place.”

“What do you care about?” Buffy bailed off the chaise in a swift movement. “What if you’re stuck here?”

He wasn’t much taller than she was. About Spike’s own height. Spike assessed the muscles in the man's shoulders and arms, the way he centered himself when Buffy entered his bubble of personal space. He would be a tough, relentless fighter.

“I’ve been stuck in worse places. I doubt if this is my final berth.”

"I don't see any space ships," Buffy said. "Here's what I think our choices are. One: insist Rowan and Giles try to send us home. For some of us, that might mean immediate death. Two: stay here, fight, live or die. Three: all the above. Which would you choose?"

Riddick tilted his head and hooked his thumbs into his belt. “I’m not a team player. And there's going to be fighting, regardless of choice.”

“Taking stuff away from vamps isn’t a game. Isn’t a military action, either,” Spike said. He eased off the couch and flexed the muscles in his shoulders. “More of a messy way to fulfill a death wish.”

Riddick smiled.

“Who doesn't love the smell of testosterone in the morning,” Es murmured. Her eyes caught the firelight as she grinned at him. Spike was interested to note a fleeting shift in color and light that sharpened her features and cast a glow of golden color across her skin.

“You may not be a team player, Riddick, but I’d bet you don’t mind participating in the occasional game.” Anita joined the conversation unexpectedly. “And I disagree with Spike. Establishing a balance between the natural and preternatural is nothing but a game. Your presence has been requested at a hunt. You got something better to do?”

Those black-covered eyes could have been staring at anything. Riddick shrugged.

"Riddick -- what are your thoughts about the way we were brought to this place?" Mina asked. "What are your thoughts about magic?"

Riddick's goggles turned to her. "Whatever you choose to call it, it's only energy. And I think your energy is running way low." 

"I will need blood soon," Mina agreed. "Energy. Yes. It would take immense energy to reach through space and time, select and transport individual entities from one place to another. If Queen Rowan and Lord Giles have that kind of power, why would they need us?"

"Willow says -- that's the other Rowan, in my world -- that you have to retrain, almost rewire the human brain to use magical power," Buffy said. "It's dangerous, and hello, rewiring the brain not usually a good thing, can leave you not-human at the end, scarier than all the vampires in the world in one room at dinner time. Pulling bunnies from the hat probably tapped them both to the max."

"You saw how they both looked by the time we got here," Es said. "They were ready to collapse."

Buffy nodded. "You still haven't answered my question, Riddick."

"What was the question again?" He shifted balance, took a step toward her.

"About being stuck here. About the choices. I know something about being chosen." Buffy took a step toward him, glaring up at her own reflection. "It sucks, but what can you do? I'll fight for them. I'll kill evil. When the magic grabbed me, my life had already ended multiple times. Apparently I have to keep trying until I get it right."

"Killing things is kind of my default setting."

And that was all she would get from him for now, Spike instinctively knew. 

“Anita. You'd help?” Buffy backed away from Riddick, without taking her eyes from him.

“Depending on Edward’s state of health. I’d do what I could. If it was necessary.” 

The answer was grudging; but there was something in Anita’s voice, in the expression on her china-doll face, that gave Spike a vivid mental flash of Darla contemplating a problem. It made the skin crawl along the back of his neck.

“An odd turn of phrase.” Mina had seen something as well. “Why should it _not_ be necessary, to rush to the rescue of a human prince taken by vampires?”

“They were vague on that whole taken part,” Buffy said slowly. She resumed her place at Spike's side. “Bad Wesley’s speech included a bit about desire and intent and embracing.”

“As if it were the prince’s choice.” Anita nodded. “There are vampire converts in my culture. The promise of eternal life and all that physical power appeals to a certain type of person. I know of several cases where family members took extreme measures to dissuade someone who had made up their mind to turn.”

“You think that’s the case here?” Buffy asked.

“Ask them,” Mina said. "I'd like to know more about Buffy and Anita. 

"I will ask Giles," Buffy said. "I'm a Slayer. I have superior strength, endurance, and choice of boots. Fawn said they call Anita --"

"The Executioner." Anita shrugged. "Licensed by the state. I kill rogue vampires, mostly with silver bullets and knives. Sometimes I kill other monsters."

"Magic Giles says you're a necromancer. What does that mean?"

"I can raise the dead, reanimate corpses," Anita said reluctantly. "I've made -- connections with vampires, probably due to necromancy. It wasn't deliberate. The rituals I know are all for creatures with no remaining volitional power."

"The power of the necromancer goes far beyond those things," Mina said. "Affinity for the dead, power over the dead, power to call death itself . . . true necromancy is rarely seen in my world, and is very, very dangerous to vampires."

"How?" Es asked. 

Mina slanted a look at Anita. "If she can't tell you, perhaps it would be against my own interest to say further."

"When a reanimator raises a zombie, they call the original spirit back to the shell that housed the spirit in life. Our vampires, and I think I speak for Anita here, still maintain original personalities. They do change, and I've heard debate over the _no soul_ idea." Es looked between Mina and Anita. "Have you ever tried to call a vampire, command a vampire, or return a vampire's soul to its body?"

"Not an it, love." Spike was more amused than offended. "I had to fight to have my soul returned. Nobody whistled it up for me. But it was definitely MIA for many, many years. Common wisdom in our world says the intelligence in command of the vampire body is demonic in nature. Not sure what that means, I always had all my memories. Some of the actions I took as a vampire could only be explained by who I had been as a man. In present context it might work if you define _demon_ as an intelligence stripped of empathy, guilt, morality of any kind."

"I have never been a demon. Vampirism for us is more like a disease," Mina said. "My body died, but my soul never departed. Watching generations of people live and die while you do not change, being stronger, faster, more illusive than the canniest human thief, would wreak psychological havoc on any personality. We can become callous, or deliberately withdrawn from humanity. Because we experience death before change, a strong necromancer in my world could find that death in us, call us or command us using death as a hook."

"I've made -- connections with vampires, probably due to necromancy. It wasn't deliberate," Anita said. 

"Hold that thought for now." 

Buffy was clearly back in Captain Buffy mode. Spike discerned the same intensity he'd seen in her while fighting the First, although the tightly controlled core of numb pain she had carried for so long seemed to be gone.

"Es. What about you? What about Fawn? Any thoughts on why the two of you were chosen by the magic?"

"Fawn seems to be 100% human, with no special talent. I don't like to fight, but I could. Only probably not in any organized group," Es said, sounding irritated. "As Anita guessed, I'm _not_ 100% human. I can shift."

"Into what?" Anita asked. "Not lycanthrope, but _were_ \--?"

"Shit." Es set her mouth into a straight line. "Dragon."

Spike stared at the small, slim woman. "You can shift into dragon form?" He'd heard stories during his travels across the European and Asian continents, trailing behind Dru in the years after he'd been turned. She loved to seek out village wisemen and women, mesmerize them into sharing area folklore before she ate them. Were-dragons were only one of the seemingly mythological creatures that popped up with some regularity.

"That's about all I can do. I had a fight with my family, left the roost. I've lived human for a long time, seldom shift, and never took battle training," Es said. "And I'd rather not talk about it further."

"Okay then. For now." Buffy grinned. "Spike's a very good fighter. Am I right in assuming you're a good fighter, Mina?"

"During non-daylight hours. Daylight shuts me down."

"So. We need to have a longer talk with Giles."

"I'm going to get some sleep." Anita left the circle and went to the pillows on the floor near Edward's bed.

Riddick stood and flexed his shoulders. “I need fresh air.”

“Me too. I want to look around. Spike?”

“Yeah.” As long as she was in Riddick’s company, he wasn’t letting her out of his sight. 

“I’d like to accompany you as well.” Mina glided toward Riddick. “I can ensure the guards do not give alarm.”

“So can I,” Riddick said.

“Since we are, at this moment, guests, my method may cause less distress to our hosts,” Mina said with a small smile.

Spike changed his appreciative snicker to a cough when he saw Buffy’s expression.

“After you, then.” Riddick let Mina pass him. 

She moved like a wind-blown shadow on the wall, with exaggerated swiftness. Spike heard murmuring from the hallway, then Mina’s voice raised in a single word.

“Come.”

The guards’ heads were thrown back, resting against the wall. By the rise and fall of their chests, Spike knew the men were deeply asleep.

“Drusilla had that old black magic with 'er eyes,” Spike said. “Never could do the eye-whammy myself. Which way should we go?”

Riddick walked briskly away from them. “You can follow me to the heart of the hold, where I was this morning. Then you’re on your own.”

 

The smells took him right back to his childhood. Spike walked next to Buffy on cobblestone paths between squat stone structures leaking odors of tallow, chicken yard, wet wool, and aged cabbage.

"Smells like the eighteenth century, but seems generally much cleaner. No rubbish."

"The roofs are slate." Mina was a couple steps ahead of them, gliding after Riddick like his shadow. "Fire prevention."

The path ended in a spacious, roughly circular area fronted by shuttered buildings. 

"Market." Spike pointed at bare, standing wooden poles and several wooden and stone tables. He could smell water strongly now, and sun-dried fish guts. "Did you get as far as the lake?"

"No. I was looking at the defenses up front." Riddick kept walking.

"I haven't seen or heard anyone." Buffy's hair seemed to gather rays of moonlight and give back its own pale light. "Do they concentrate on the walls?"

"Probable. I'm afraid there are far less people here than we were led to believe," Mina said.

Where Buffy was moonlight, Mina was eclipse. Spike had to stare hard at her to find the edges of her body any lower than her shoulders. When she bent her head to turn away and listen she was virtually invisible. He'd seen a few vamps with similar talents over the years, vamps who could gather fog, mist, or shadow and use it for a concealing shroud. Mina was doing something different, but not outside his vampiric experience. 

They left the market by a broad avenue that curved slowly between squat stone buildings reeking of smoke and fish. When they passed the last of the smokehouses the landscape became a jumble of drydocked boat frames. 

"The lake." Buffy pointed at a shiver of reflected light. "The keep walls go right down into the water." 

They had come out close to the northwestern curve of wall. Fitful moonlight dappled the stone that soared above them. Height diminished as the stonework entered the water and a final curve of stair led down onto a massive jetty. The avenue continued straight ahead, turning into a long wharf lined with boathouses. Masts of bobbing boats clustered near the end of the wharf.

"Serious about their fortifications, the builders were," Spike muttered. "They've made a sheltered harbor, with very little access through by water. Don't think we'll find anything helpful here, Slayer.” Spike eased up in back of her, fighting the urge to run his hands down her body and draw her solidly against him. He could see Riddick as a dark shape against the roughly hewn boards of the dock shanties, and Mina as a shadow next to him.

“Maybe not.” Buffy’s voice sounded soft and unconcerned. “This is all research mode, Spike.”

"Yeah. I know." She was probably having the same flashbacks: the Scoobies gathered around; first in the school library, later in the Magic Shop, later still around the Summers' living room with newbies everywhere. It was like a silent movie, losing color even as the moments replayed in his mind.

The moon broke from between wind-driven clouds and touched the water, a burst of silver shimmer that transformed the darkness into something huge. Alive.

“It might be Lake Michigan,” Buffy said, turning. “The topography seems a bit off, though.”

“Lots ‘o things seem a bit off.” Seemingly of their own volition, Spike’s fingers reached to trace her face and mouth. “Some things seem -- unchanged.”

Her mouth was still under his, then melted into a yielding softness that brought every fiber of his body to rigid attention. How long had it been, since the last time?

“Buffy --”

She put her hand on his chest, pushed him away without force. 

“Visitors.” Riddick’s voice was amused. “They’ve been following us for a while, now.” His eyes caught a subdued ray of moonlight and turned it to mother-of-pearl luminescence before he lowered his head. Ten steps away from them, and he seemed to disappear as effectively as Mina into the shadows against the wharf buildings.

“Four humans,” Mina said, phasing back to visibility. “They’ve been watching us for several minutes. They seem loath to come into the open.”

“Then we’ll go to them.” Buffy followed the direction of Mina’s gaze to a solid line of stone structures built over the waterline. She led the way, finding it necessary to weave between neat stacks of barrels and miniature mountains of slate. In the darkness near the stone buildings, Buffy stopped and listened. 

“Door open there,” Spike said. “I think it’s an invite.”

“Definite invite.” Buffy pulled up quickly as Mina slipped in front of her and went through the door first. "Hey!"

"S'alright. You don't always need to be the first one into the jaws of death, love." Spike followed her into the boathouse, grinning at her irate mutter of _whatever_. 

The creak and groan of boat timbers playing against the water’s gentle rhythm in the enclosed space didn't mask the sounds of rapid human breathing. Discounting Buffy, Spike heard four more humans somewhere in the darkness. A small light flared against the wall farthest from the door. Spike caught a whiff of something both sweet and acrid, and clearly saw the profile of a man’s face as he turned away from lighting an oil lamp.

New light showed Mina standing several steps ahead of them, with three people on their knees in front of her. The lamplighter hung the lamp on a metal hook, then joined the others, dropping to his knees and turning his head to one side in a gesture that bared his jugular vein.

“Lady. We are here to serve you.”

Spike put his hand on Buffy's arm. "Wait a bit. Listen." He stepped up beside Mina. “What’s this all about, then?”

"Lord!" Two men, two women said the word almost simultaneously. 

"We heard you were here. The Queen will offer little hospitality," the lamplighter said. "But it is our choice to serve Nightworld."

"I am not Nightworld." Mina's voice was flat. "Only a fool offers blood to a vampire. Do you find life such a worthless thing?"

"I don't understand." The man's eyes darted between Spike and Mina. "We offer worship and service. It's been so long for us." His voice dropped to a whisper. "It's been so long, Lord and Lady. Please accept us."

Mina's eyes found his, curious, contemplative and hungry. "Two for each of us, and we need not kill them. An interesting, perhaps necessary experiment?"

Hunger sent throbbing agreement into his canines. 

"There will be no experimenting with the people." Buffy looked down at the four with some perplexity. "People where I'm from don't actually fall on their knees and beg to be vamp chow."

"I don't think blood is all they are offering." Mina shivered. "We need to understand this offer."

"Right. Please stand up and come with us. We're going to get Giles out of bed and ask more questions."

"No! Please!" The lamplighter surged to his feet. "Not Lord Giles. They will turn us out, give us to Nightworld."

"I thought you wanted to serve Nightworld," Buffy said.

"We do." Confusion and fear twisted the man's face. "But our homes are here. We thought, with Lord Raimund's embracing . . ." He let the sentence die as one of his companions muttered something close to his ear. "We cannot go with you."

"Look at me." Mina stepped closer. Her right hand, forefinger extended, wove an ouroboros figure into the air. "Be quiet of mind."

Faces relaxed, slack muscles replaced tense postures as the freeholders watched Mina. Spike glanced at Buffy. She seemed unaffected by Mina's actions, observing with narrow-eyed concentration. When she caught him watching her, she raised her eyebrows and grinned.

"Follow me." Mina led the way out of the boathouse, closely followed by the freeholders. Spike fell in behind with Buffy, searching the wharf for Riddick.

"He'll turn up." Buffy was clearly in danger patrol mode until they reached the entrance to the inner keep. "Guards. We're busted. That's Deputy Kiernan waiting for us. He doesn't look happy."

He didn't look happy. The man's dark, rugged features were haggard with exhaustion and anger. "An explanation would be advisable," he growled, aiming the implied question at Buffy.

Not a man to chat with vampires. Torches mounted on either side of the door flickered red light off the edge of the short blade Kiernan held like an exclamation point.

"We need to speak with Lord Giles. If you could bring him to our rooms, that would be great." Buffy yawned hugely, looked surprised. "Sorry. I'd let it go until morning, but I've learned the hard way not to put things off until morning."

 

**RUPERT: LOST ONES**

Rupert was at the bottom of a waterless well. Dark, hidden, close, quiet, the well was a safe, if cheerless hiding place. He ignored intrusive thudding sounds somewhere in the earth outside the well, and tried to burrow deeper into the darkness.

"Lord Giles. Rupert, lad. You're needed." Kiernan's voice. Kiernan's hand shaking his shoulder. 

"Futter all." Rupert's eyes seemed to be glued together. He swallowed against a dry throat and rubbed his fingers over his sticky eyes. The after-effects of the spell seemed even more pronounced than when he had fallen into bed, robbing strength from his legs and arms, leaving a hollow empty pit in the centering of his identity: his magic. "What is it?"

Kiernan found his robe at the foot of the bed and tossed it at him. "You've only been asleep a quarter-watch. Some of our visitors have been outside, as far as the lake. Lady Summers insists you need to speak with them." He fished in one deep vest pocket and pulled out a flask. "Here."

Rupert unstoppered the flask and took a small swallow of the aromatic ingredients. His tongue immediately went numb as the deceptively sweet liquid burned down his throat to his stomach. A jolt of heat followed the course of the liquor. He shuddered, then began to dress.

"How did they get past the guards?" He'd been a fool to post only a token guard. If any of the men had been injured . . . "Was anyone hurt?"

"I think not, but haven't had time to ascertain particulars," Kiernan said. "Lady Summers and her two vampires had the Davies brother and sister, Nona Field and John Mason with them. The Riddick is still somewhere outside the inner keep."

"Had the vampires been feeding?" Rupert fastened his sword belt around his waist. A moment of vertigo, which he banished with grim determination, momentarily slowed his hands. All the freeholders Kiernan had named were rescued citizens. He could think of only one reason they would be meeting in the dead of night with vampires.

"I don't believe so." Kiernan's voice was bleakly thoughtful. "If I'm to function effectively, boy, I need to know more about these people."

The words brought a wry smile to Rupert's lips. Kiernan had only gradually stopped referring to him as "boy" over the last few years. "The Queen and I are working on it. You'll know as soon as _we_ know." He should have foreseen this, should have bound the vampires in silver manacles behind warded doors. His instincts were all on the wind when it came to reading these visitors. There had been no indication of thralldom in any of the human auras. Rupert closed his eyes and nudged his sight alive. The effort brought an immediate, blinding headache that left tears standing in his eyes.

"Like that, is it? Magic's a useful tool, but the mind's a better tool. And thinking doesn't incapacitate the body. D'you need me to carry you?"

Rupert managed to roll his eyes while blinking the tears away. "Do shut it, Kierry, and start walking."

 

The guards were on their feet outside the visitors' quarters, auras a mix of guilty apprehension. Rupert stopped just long enough to assess the young Captain.

"Well?"

"We fell asleep. No excuses, Lord Giles." 

And they had help. The soft smudge of a gentle manipulation still blurred the otherwise violent upheaval of the guard's aura. "This was as much my fault as yours." Rupert touched the man's shoulder. "Kiernan, change out this guard and have these men wait in the guard hall."

"Anything else?"

"Not now." He rubbed his eyes, willed away the weariness and put as much energy as he could into his sight. The room's inhabitants were much the same as the last time he had seen them, with the exception of the cluster of freeholders seated on the floor just inside the door. Rupert's eyes went from the violent agitation of their auras to the calm, steady glow coming from Buffy.

"Lady Summers. Start at the beginning." The simple question set off a chain reaction in her aura, matched by a series of fleeting expressions in her eyes. Humor, experience, loss, equal parts dark implacable purpose and mercy . . . Rupert realized he was holding his breath, stunned by the depth of power that lay at the core of the young woman. Different than Rowan, but so very deep.

"You can't keep Riddick cooped up, I think you realize that. He was going for a walk, so Spike, Mina and I went along." She shrugged. "Mina put the guards to sleep. It was nicer than what Riddick wanted to do. While we were looking around we found those four. They volunteered to be blood donors, which I may think is suicidal, but the weird subtext around the offer made me wonder what else was going on. So we brought them back with us."

"Sorry. We're sorry." Nona Field was crying.

"Kiernan."

"Lord Giles?" Kiernan stepped into the doorway.

"Take these citizens to the guard hall. Keep them under close watch until I come." Rupert watched them leave, noting the difference in postures. The Davies brother and sister held their heads high, auras agitated but sharply defined. By contrast Mistress Field and Master Mason's auras were soft, roiling with fear and distress. He felt a sharp pain of the loss to come. The Davies' had been taken into the freehold as rescue trade. Already past puberty, the brother and sister were older than deBerg usually accepted, but since there were living relatives in the hold an exception had been made.

Lost. They had already been lost to thralldom, Rupert thought. How far had Raimund gone down that path? He turned to find his visitors' eyes locked on his face and body.

"What's wrong with them?" Es asked. 

"So much desperation, so much need." Mina sat perfectly still, her head tipped slightly back. "They offered to serve us, Lord Giles. They offered blood and sex almost as if driven to the offer."

"All four were born in Nightworld, enthralled as children." With bewilderment, Rupert saw a total lack of comprehension in the faces watching him.

"Like mind control?" Buffy frowned. "Dracula had me enthralled, until I kicked his ass."

"I think he means something quite different. Not mind control. Addiction," Mina said. "What do your vampires do with children, Lord Giles?"

His head hurt. Rupert rubbed his fingers through his hair, over his temples. "They usually wait until a child can walk before the master begins to take blood, just enough to establish the pleasure bond."

"Excuse me? They suck on children? And what, exactly, does _pleasure bond_ mean?" Anita's hands curled into fists.

"You know." Rupert glanced at Spike, then hastily at Buffy. "The sensation that comes when a vampire's saliva touches the skin."

"The fervent hope I remembered to jam a few wet-wipes in my pocket before going on patrol?" Buffy punched Spike in the side. "Stick out your tongue."

"Rather not." Spike obligingly stuck out his tongue, rolled his eyes as Buffy grabbed his tongue and held on for a moment. "Leggo, Thayer."

Buffy let go, rubbed her fingers together and held them up. "Spit. Wet. What's the big?"

She certainly didn't show any of the usual symptoms of exposure to vampire saliva. "I'm sorry if this is intrusive. I have to ask, Buffy. You've been bitten by a vampire?"

"A couple of times," she admitted slowly. She slanted a look at Spike. "Since full confession seems necessary here, I have allowed a biting or two during sex. Vampires on my world don't _groom_ children or adults as food. Most vampires feed until the victim is dead; age or sex make no difference."

Vampires that could simply hunt, feed and kill seemed somehow more honest predators, Rupert thought with a sense of despair. Did the humans in this strange group have yet to be discovered differences as well? "Then you all need this warning. Vampire saliva contains substances that kill pain and create euphoric pleasure. Our vampires can't afford to imperil their food supply by killing donors."

"Survival adaptation," Es said. "As humans are prone to kill things that try to feed on them under normal circumstances."

"How addictive is the experience?" Mina asked.

"It depends on the person. For some, one or two bites will create a craving. Children raised in a flock are exposed once each moon until they reach maturity. Sometimes Nightworld needs something from us badly enough to offer children as trade. Our healers have developed a regimen to decrease the effects of bonding." Rupert found he couldn't meet Buffy's straightforward, questioning gaze any longer. He shut his eyes and shook his head. "They have mixed results. The younger the child, the better our chances of a healthy transition."

"Do you have citizens who are addicted to contact with vampires, living in the freehold?" Anita asked. 

Rupert's stomach muscles tightened involuntarily as a long, cold shiver ran through his skin. The feeling didn't stop at the physical, but brushed icy tendrils against his will. He opened his eyes quickly. Anita still sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, midway between the cot of her sick friend and the circle of furniture. Her dark hair was mussed. The thin skin under her eyes was faintly purple against the almost vampire-pale skin of her face. There was an expression in her dark eyes Rupert could not interpret, but made him wish he had a shield and long knife nearby.

"Those four young people are currently the only citizens we have who were raised in thrall. There is a handful of adults who have been exposed in the past. Our law does not allow any citizen to remain in the hold if they become an active participant in giving blood." Rupert pulled up the sleeve of his robe, held his right wrist up to expose an old scar. "I know what the venom feels like. It was during one of my first negotiations with Nightworld as an apprentice mage. I let one of the young queens --" He pulled his arm back into the sleeve. This wasn't the time for that tale.

"Rowan's brother." Buffy frowned at him. "Is that why he's gone to the dark side? Spit addiction?"

"We don't have enough information. Because of his rank, they would be very careful with him," Rupert said. "I doubt they have him in full thrall. But this might be wishful thinking on my part."

"Going to find there's a woman behind it," Spike said.

It was exactly what Rupert had thought, and not discussed with Rowan. "The youngest queen is sponsoring Raimund's embracing. She would be very beautiful, if human." An enormous yawn pushed through his chest, stretching his jaws with shuddering force. "Sorry."

"You need to sleep. We need to sleep," Es said. "Tomorrow we need to speak with both you and Rowan. We need to find a way to feed Mina and Spike."

 

**SPIKE: EVERYONE'S ON EDGE**

The man who looked so much like Giles shuffled out of the room, rubbing swollen red eyes. Nearly dead asleep on his feet, Spike thought. He heard low words exchanged with the guards in the corridor. 

"Spike: you can stay awake during the day?" Mina left the chair she had been sitting in and came to sit cross-legged in front of the couch he and Buffy had claimed as their own.

"Yes. Can't go into direct sun. Can sleep when I choose," Spike said. "Vamps don't really need to sleep, do they? More habit than anything else, chance for mental reboot."

"My body reacts to the sunrise by nearly shutting down," Mina said. "If I try very hard I can move a little. I can, however, still see and hear everything that goes on around me."

"So if we had to have a big war council during the day, you could hear everything we talk about?" Buffy asked. She was trying to wedge her back and shoulder into a comfortable position on the lumpy couch.

"Yes. Although it would be frustrating to lack the ability to participate." Mina shifted her focus to Buffy. "There will come a point when my need for blood erodes my control. I can live on animal blood if I must."

"They don't have many animals," Buffy said. She looked at him, chewing her lip. "Should the two of you go hunting, outside?"

"Won't find much out there." Riddick stood in the doorway, three silent guards pointing sharp weapons at his back. He ignored them. "Took a quick run out and around. The land is silent, empty."

"Give those poor guards a break." Buffy motioned in exasperation. "Come in here."

Riddick eased down, his back against the wall closest to the door. "There's a group of burrows, one running minute from the west exterior wall. Smelled like those revenants who greeted our arrival."

"Contributing to the lack of animals?" Buffy sighed. "I can give Spike some of my blood. Not much, if we're going to be fighting soon."

Es cleared her throat. "I think it's going to be necessary to give some of my blood to keep Edward alive. I regenerate quickly, and could also donate to Mina. But feeding off us isn't a long term solution, Buffy."

Mina looked around, surprised. "Thank you for the offer."

"What about the four citizens who were groveling for it?"

So Riddick had stayed somewhere close, listening without being seen. 

"Spit addicts." Buffy explained what they had learned about the native vampires. 

"Willing donors," Riddick said, when she finished. "Might be a good lesson for them to find pain instead of pleasure."

He had a point, although he enjoyed making it way too much. Mina's eyes held Spike's briefly, then moved away to Riddick. Whatever she thought, she kept to herself.

 

Spike and Mina were the only ones still awake just before the sun rose. At least Spike thought Riddick was asleep. His breathing was deep and regular.

"It's like having honey poured into your mind," Mina said. Her voice was pitched to little more than a whisper. "The sun reaches the horizon, and everything slows, then stops."

"Don't think I'd like that." Spike watched her arrange arms and legs and turn her cheek so it lay against the chair back. Mina had been, still was, a beautiful woman. In profile, near sleep, her face had the timeless grace of a finely chiseled cameo. "How hungry are you?"

"Hungry." Mina's eyes closed. "I will reach a point where I go feral, and feed on whatever -- whoever -- I can find."

"Tonight. One way or another," Spike said. He judged the growing disquiet and need in his own body. Buffy would share blood with him, and as seductive a thought as _that_ was, Spike knew it wasn't a solution to the essential problem. And weakening Buffy before a fight would be a bad, bad idea.

A whisper of sound, fabric on stone, brought his attention away from Buffy's sleeping face. Riddick stood by the door, stretching. 

"Don't kill the guards," Spike said. "They got chewed last night, so they're going to be all full of zeal."

"Spike?" Buffy opened her eyes and yawned. "Is it morning?"

"Mina said so."

"Buffy." Riddick had slept in the goggles. He removed them, squinting even though the only light in the room came from the low-banked fireplace. He cocked his head and stared at her with liquid silver-black eyes. "Feel like a morning swim?"

 

The guards were spared any physical intervention by Buffy's firm advice. She suggested one of them tag along at a safe distance, and one of them run for Kiernan. She and Riddick were only going swimming, they could all remove their hands from the knives and chill, and Spike could quit looking at her like that, thank you very much.

Muttering followed, as the two guards who remained in the hallway tried to puzzle out what the suggestion meant. 

"It means suck it up and stand back, because she's bloody well going to do exactly what she wants to do," Spike said with disgust. He knew the truth of his words. Riddick could go outside with her in daylight, and he couldn't. Jealousy or lack of feeding, or maybe both: he was conscious of homicidal rage getting ready to yawn, rub its eyes and surface in him.

"She's as dangerous as he is." Es was awake across the room. "I wouldn't mind a swim either, but I'll wait and ask Lord Giles to make the arrangements."

"Am I still here?" Fawn sat up, looked around and began to cry. Es hurried to her side, patiently comforting. 

"Can we help? What ails the lady?" Lara and Minette, accompanied by their usual bowls of smelly, steaming liquid, paused on their way to Edward's bed.

"Bugger all." How long would he be shut up with this crew? Spike lay down on the couch and held a pillow over his head. But shutting out the sight of them all didn't deaden the sound.

Es helping Fawn go to the loo, coddling the silly cow way too much, in his opinion. Anita, berating the healers, who sounded like they'd given up on Edward. She had a razor keen temper and tongue. When the hairs on his arm stood up, as if he'd just been surrounded by a field of static electricity, Spike removed the pillow and looked across at the unhappy scene.

"Es." Anita didn't acknowledge Fawn's existence as she crawled back onto her couch. "Will you try to give him blood? They say there's nothing more they can do. He's not going to make it."

"I can try." Es looked as if she wanted to say more, then decided against further discussion. "Lara: I told you what might be needed. You understand about using boiling water on the things we must use?"

"Yes. To prevent poisoning the blood." 

"I'm going to need extra food as well. If I lose too much blood, I might shift. Calories will help forestall that."

Lara hurried from the room.

"If you shift, would we be in danger? Would Edward be in danger?" Anita asked.

"Not really. But the room and corridors might not remain intact." Es sounded embarrassed. "If I shift, I'll want to fly, or find gold. I don't have self-discipline I should, haven't shifted regularly since I left home."

"You get injured, say shot or stuck with something sharp, and you'd shift? Even if you were unconscious?" Spike opened a new file in his memory, labeled it _weredragon_ and saw color phase through Es' eyes, green to gold and back again. She was well aware of the implications in his question.

"It's always a possibility."

"Es. I'm hungry, and I need a shower." Fawn's plaintive voice interrupted. "I need clean clothes. When are we going home?" She started to cry again, low throbbing gulps of unhappiness.

Spike felt his fangs push against his tongue, then withdraw. There was a martyred, mad quality in Fawn's voice that reminded him of Dru, when her situation didn't suit. "Healer. That bowl of steam is doing sod-all for your patient. How about a hand with the crazy woman."

Minette avoided looking at him, but she seemed to register Fawn's condition. She looked to Es. "Will you need my help?"

"I don't think so. If there's anything you can do for her . . ."

"I'll take her down to the workroom, let her soak in an herbal bath." Minette put her bowl aside. "You just come along with me, dearie. " She gently herded a still sobbing Fawn from the room.

"Thank god." Anita's voice told him more than one of them had fantasized about killing the woman. "Were you thinking about eating her, just to shut her up?"

It took a second, but Spike winked at Anita and grinned. She'd been watching him more carefully than he'd realized. "I was thinking she reminded me of an old girlfriend."

Both Es and Anita stared at him. He was saved from elaboration by the reappearance of the healers, minus Fawn. Spike watched the preparations for the impromptu transfusion, but when the smell of Es' blood filled the air, he left the main room quickly. He sat with his back against the wall, down a bit from the guards. It wasn't far enough.

"Need a bit of space," he told the guard who seemed to be in charge. "Going to go over near south gate. Probably best if one of you come along. Won't eat you." It was a promise he wasn't sure he could keep. He needed blood, wanted blood . . . He needed Buffy, and she was out, in the sunshine. With Riddick.

His teeth pushed against his tongue again. He was going to have to eat soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**RUPERT: TAKING COUNCIL**

"I propose we allow the two vampires, brought here in response to Merlyn's Spell of Salvation, to feed from Thomas and Jannifer Davies." 

Rowan held up her hand to quiet the swell of protest, surprised from members of the Council of Freepeople representing deBerg Freehold.

Rupert cradled the side of his head, winced, and bit his tongue. Rowan had briely told him of her intention to propose this unthinkable course of action, but had given him no opportunity to comment. 

Seated next to him, Kiernan leaned forward, forearms on the council table and glared at Rowan. "Finish your piece, Queen Rowan." His voice, more than hers, quieted the rest of the council.

Rowan nodded, let her eyes travel around the table, finding and holding the gaze of each person there before moving on.

Lady Snow: youngest of the council, historian and scribe, her breasts larger and fuller than the last time they'd met. She was nursing a new baby, a boy. Her eyes were wide. Rigidly repressed fear stiffened her shoulders.

Goodman Elba: master smith. He was more angry than afraid. Confused. The large-boned man, with arms like small kegs, hunched slightly as he glared at Rowan.

Goodwoman Raven: dispute negotiator and civil judge, showed only cold interest in Rowan's suggestion. As usual, she was waiting for the entire proposal before assessing the merits, or failings, in a suggested course of action.

Goodwoman Allis: agriculture and husbandry coordinator, supply steward, almost looked relieved, although vastly uncomfortable about feeling that way. She'd approached Rupert before the meet, demanding to know if her precious cows were in any danger.

They'd come to a very bad pass, Rupert thought, when cows were less expendable than people. But Rowan wasn't suggesting the Davies brother and sister were expendable.

"They were sent to us for a purpose," Rowan continued. "They aren't like our vampires. Their saliva is not intoxicating. Their bites will not result in bliss or addiction." She was using short, simple sentences, ticking off her points with a careful lack of drama. "Thomas and Jannifer Davies will be the topic of further council action. They sought, clandestinely, to serve vampires. You all know what Freehold law says about this."

"A hearing, with the accused in attendance," Raven said, "then explusion from the hold. It's happened in the past."

"We will hold the hearing when We return from Nightworld." 

The royal "we," in an autocratic tone of voice usually reserved for Rupert, surprised the council. Silence moved like a winter wind in the small chamber, displacing a turbulent series of sibilant sighs and incoherent protests. They were most familiar with Rowan in her role of arbitrator or mediator. _Queen_ was a title to them that Rowan had not yet fully assumed or exercised.

"We've never served up our people to vampires." Kiernan's voice was very soft. "There's no way 'round it, Rowan girl. They're our people. If we must provide for vampires, best let them take cow or goat blood."

"No!" Allis squirmed. "How long do you think to feed them?"

"For now, until we reach Nightworld. And your animals may be pressed into service, Goodwoman Allis. I have a practical, if unpleasant, reason for suggesting this course of action. I need to understand the new vampires, need to see them feed and judge for myself how people would be affected."

"Lord Rupert. Share your thoughts on Queen Rowan's proposal."

"Lady Snow." Rupert was glad he didn't have to look into Kiernan's eyes as he stumbled into a semi-prepared response. "When Queen Rowan suggested we perform the Spell of Salvation, this council voted as one, in agreement. Responsibility for the outcome of the spell lies heaviest on Queen Rowan, and on my shoulders. But it is also shared by the council. These vampires will have a part to play in our action to reclaim Raimund. We owe them the same care and hospitality we owe the rest of our guests. If it is to be your cows, Allis, or volunteers from our guests, or from our own veins, deBerg must ensure blood is provided."

"I am very surprised to hear you say this," Goodman Elba said. "The Davies' youngsters . . . they are truly lost to us?"

"I believe so." Rupert looked around the table. Without exception each aura bore the tinge of earthy brown that betrayed uncertainty. "They will not be more damaged than they already are. The donation can be made under controlled circumstances. If the vote passes, and Kiernan agrees, we can both stand ready to kill the vampires if there is a need."

"We have greater questions to debate here." Lady Snow touched her hand to her breast, an unconsciously revealing gesture. "Raimund's weakness has put all of deBerg at risk. I support Queen Rowan's proposal, on the condition Thomas and Jannifer Davies agree to act as donors, of their own will and desire."

"And if Thomas and Jannifer Davies are incapable of acting from their free will?" Raven's clear, hard voice asked the question Rupert had agonized over many times in the past, when considering the plight of the thrall-ridden.

"I believe they would be incapable of turning away any of this world's vampires. I desperately wish I could change that condition," Rowan said. She rubbed a hand over her forehead. "How do you vote, Lord Kiernan?"

Rupert made the effort and took a look at her aura. It required more concentration than normal, which gave him an idea of his own state of health. Rowan's aura flickered like a banked fire, fitful red and golds. He let the vision drop as Kiernan answered.

"Aye." Kiernan didn't elaborate, just squared his shoulders and relaxed back into his chair. He would accept personal responsibility for the outcome of this vote, for the safety of the Davies' siblings.

"Lady Snow? Goodwoman Allis? Goodman Elba? Goodwoman Raven?"

Each answered with an affirmative vote. Rowan looked to him. "Lord Giles? I have made this proposal, and I vote aye. The voice of the Queen's Councilor is heard last in a council vote."

"Aye." The audible sound of breath being drawn whispered around the table. "The suggestion of the Queen's Councilor is this: the donation will be arranged for the hour just after sunset, when Lady Mina is awake. After the procedure the council needs to reconvene in Merlyn's chamber. The Queen and I will bring our guests to assemble with us. We have only one more day's time before we must be on the march to Nightworld."

Snow was the last to leave the chamber. She waited until Kiernan had departed, then went quickly to Rowan and hugged her. "Get some sleep today. There is no color left in your face, and the worst of it all is ahead of us." 

"She's right." Rupert said, when Snow had gone. "Your aura is in tatters, which means mine is in a similar condition. I'm going to speak with Kiernan, then we're going to the classroom."

 

**BUFFY: BE VEWWY VEWWY QUIET . . .**

"Come along, or not. If you can keep up."

Riddick had removed his boots and shirt, stuffing them into an improvised bag of fish netting. Buffy found a similar tangled length of netting that did not cooperate nearly as well as Riddick's piece. By the time her own shoes and shirt were off, his head and shoulders were making time away from the shore.

The ungainly weight of shoes against her hip was only a momentary distraction. She swam hard, determined to _keep up_ with Riddick. The man reminded her of the few high-end demons she'd hunted in the past. No wasted motion. Sure-footed, even graceful, on any terrain.

Spike moved like that. But Riddick had some additional, indefinable quality. It had come to her, watching him strip off his shirt at the water's edge, that Riddick had no protective coloration. He existed in his own space as his own creature. It was the rare vampire that dropped any pretense of humanity. And while Buffy assumed Riddick was human in spite of his differences, it would probably be necessary to cut him open to prove it.

A steady wind drove the surface of the water into long swells traveling in the direction of the fortress. Buffy followed Riddick as he angled through the cold water toward the westerly shore. Once her body adjusted to the temperature the exercise was exhilarating. She managed to slightly close the distance between them, although it was a challenge. Riddick swam like a river otter on crack, hard and fast, occasionally rolling and diving before bobbing to the surface even further ahead of her.

By the time Buffy found the lake bottom under her feet and made it onto the beach, he was sitting halfway up the sandy bluff that stretched between lakeshore and grassland.

Buffy untied the improvised sack of net at her waist, sat down and put on her old running shoes. The battered swoosh of logo brought a small, sad smile. All her beautiful boots were gone now, and she was stuck in a world where fine leathers would not be commonly available -- on account of the lack of cows. If she'd only known, her choice of footgear for the End of the World Party might have been different.

"You coming?" Riddick had already put on his boots, which looked to be of good leather and probably had steel-toe inserts. 

"Right behind you." The swim had kicked her heart rate up a notch and left her skin tingling. A good workout. She should swim more often. A quick shiver danced through Buffy's skin as wind dried water from her arms, while intensifying the wet cold retained by her soaked running bra and loose trousers. Well, she'd warm up soon enough if they ran all the way back to the freehold.

Taking a quick look back along the shoreline, Buffy judged they had come out of the water about three-quarters of a mile on a straight line from the freehold. Two guards stood on the end of the jetty, looking in their direction. When she turned away from the water, Riddick had already climbed the tumble of dune and disappeared from view. 

Was this what Dawn felt like? Always trying to keep up? Sadness deeper than the well of souls threw back an echo, bringing the sting of tears to her eyes. Buffy dug into the sand with her old shoes and scrambled after Riddick. She needed to stay in the now, in the here, wherever the hell that was. 

When she got to the top of the mix of sand and grassy hummocks it was easy to spot Riddick.

It wasn't the landscape she would have expected, around a lake of this size. Trees stood singly, or in groups of two or three, wide spaces of grassland between. Deliberate, Buffy thought as she jogged toward Riddick. Almost park-like. A glance to her left confirmed the fact they were still being watched from the top of the freehold wall. 

She saw the flick of light off Riddick's protective lenses the moment before her Early Warning System kicked in: a tingle of otherness, the trace of bad odor in the air. Buffy slowed to a brisk walk, then to a slow, systematic meandering pace as she examined the grassy ground. The first suspicious spots, where turf had been partially wrenched up then settled back into place, were easy to locate. When she looked for Riddick, she found him waiting for her a couple of hundred yards further on. Without speaking, he walked a sweep of the ground from the west to east edges of the freehold, then back the way they'd come. By the time they completed the circuit, Buffy had identified fifteen locations where revenants had gone to ground.

"So?"

Buffy knelt on the ground and ripped a chunk of sod out of the dirt. She pushed her fingers into the compacted earth beneath. "There's stone underneath a lot of the grass around the keep. Old foundations maybe?"

"Outbuildings." Riddick nodded. "Anything else strike you?"

The smell, Buffy thought with a feeling of deja-foreboding. "The holes on the east side smell least bad. The first one we passed coming up from the lake absolutely reeks. It's like they're all down the one hole. Can that be right?"

"Right for a burrow." Riddick cocked his head, mouth curling into the kind of smile Buffy had seen demons attempt with less success. "I'll bet if you ask nice, those guards hanging out at the gate would find us a couple of shovels and hunting knives."

"Won't be necessary. Big dog coming our way." Kiernan, flanked by five guardsmen on each side, must have exited at the southern gate. "For an old guy, he can really move."

Riddick crouched beside her, head oriented toward the keep. Deprived of the tells that a person's eyes usually provided, Buffy found herself searching for Riddick's micro expressions: tiny muscles near his mouth and along his jaw. "What do you see?"

"Same thing you see. Trip into the dark."

"Lady Summers. Speak to me." Kiernan slowed to a walk, then stopped several feet away from them. The guardsmen fanned into back-up positions in a semi-circle around him. 

There was, Buffy noted, not a happy face in the lot. "Did you know you have revenants burrowing toward the keep?"

Kiernan's eyes swept the ground, wavered, then narrowed on the turf around the stinky hole. "This is recent. We run grid patrols every day. This quadrant was done four days ago. What do you mean -- burrowing toward the keep?" The question had the edge of a finely sharpened knife, like the one Kiernan withdrew from his belt sheath.

"Xander used to play a video game with similarities. What's to prevent something from tunneling under your walls and coming up inside the keep? Somewhere nice and dark, but people adjacent?"

A murmur passed between the guardsmen. Kiernan's mouth worked, then he spat into the grass. "Greene . . . fetch Lord Giles."

A guardsman bolted toward the keep. 

"It must have taken a while. Years. To abandon the outbuildings." From utter stillness, Riddick transformed into purposeful action. He began removing the sod over the stinky hole, exposing the mouth of an excavation barely big enough to fit a man's shoulders. "Used to be an underground connection between the hold and at least one building -- barracks? Storage?"

"I can't say. Lord Giles will . . ."

"Not just a nasty tunnel, but a nasty bunker?" Buffy sighed, experience more than imagination supplying a picture of dark, cramped spaces underground. Experience added tangling roots, slimy damp, and small vermin to the postcard. "Pros and cons, Riddick. They may have room for mass attack."

"Yeah." Riddick faced Kiernan and held out his hand. "Two knives. Sheaths as well."

"One for me." Buffy examined the guardsmen critically until she found a slim-waisted young man. "May I borrow your belt and knife?"

"You're not even considering such a sortie will be the death of you?" Kiernan took a step further away from them and motioned to his men. "Hobbs, Carver, Sweep . . . give them your knives. Canna you wait until Lord Giles joins us?"

The belts were made of braided fiber, but the sheaths were worn leather. Buffy settled the sheath comfortably against one hip and tightened the belt. "For permission, or is there something you haven't told us?"

"Going to be dark down there." Riddick held a long-bladed knife in each hand. He hefted them twice, then sent them spinning into the air.

"Ruler of the universe and knife juggler. Clearly I need to learn to play the accordion." Pre-fight adrenalin brought laughter and a comfortable intensity of focus. Buffy wished Spike could be going with them. She knew how to fight with Spike at her back. "Dark's not my first choice, but I can Stevie Wonder along."

Riddick sheathed the knives, then stood utterly still, head slightly bowed facing her over the hole, scenting the air. Listening. 

He was a hunter, and probably a good one. There was a quality of stillness about him common to vampires, uncommon to humans. Good focus, Buffy thought, letting her eyes linger over the muscles in his shoulder and arms. Really good . . .

Riddick pulled his shirt over his head, then used a knife to shred the garment into two pieces. He removed his goggles. Eyes closed he stepped toward Kiernan, tossing the goggles. "Hold these for me. Summers --" 

"Er . . ." Damn. Was he naturally hairless, or did he shave all over? Buffy cleared her mind of the words _brick shithouse_ and cleared her throat. "Yes?"

"First: tie this over your nose and mouth." Riddick illustrated by folding half of the tee into a bandana-shape. "Give you some breathing space. How's your hearing?" Riddick's hands shot out, unerringly located her shoulders and turned her around.

There was no threat, or restraint implied in the action, Buffy decided, finding the expression on Kiernan's face to be moderately hilarious. He and his guardsmen had been carefully looking at her face or her feet since their arrival; anything but her running bra and shirt-free torso. Their body language now told her something about local social taboos: men and women without shirts did not interact in public.

"I have superior hearing." Slayer perceptions were comfortable with Riddick's presence, comfortable with the solid wall of male body that could have been Spike -- except for the heat building against her back. 

His hands left her shoulders. "Twelve." One tap on the crown of her head. "Three, nine." Right shoulder, left shoulder. "Six."

"Hey. Hands off my ass." Buffy put distance between them. His fingers had cupped her cheek, subtly testing the resilience of her flesh. "I get it. You're first down that hole, and I'll be on your six." 

"And you can put your hands anywhere you like." Riddick bent like a diver, one knife in hand, then disappeared head first down the hole.

 

**ES: BLOOD DONOR**

At times, over the years away from the weyr, Es had wondered what her grandmothers, mother and sisters were doing, but she had rarely _missed_ them. The empathic connection that was a fundamental part of her clan's design had always hummed along in the background of consciousness, like subtle music in a better than average film, providing continuity.

Now the music was, if not silent, a ghosting whisper that might only be memory. Since her abrupt relocation to this place, Es had attempted several times to make direct contact with the connection and failed. The sensation of being utterly alone was unpleasant, unnerving, and potentially problematic. If she had a panic attack it could be bad.

So far, caring for Fawn had sucked up any extra time that might have been used to panic

"Es?" Anita stood, hands clenched into fists. "Are you ready to go over a plan with them? I don't seem to communicate with them very well."

_Blessed are the peacemakers._ Many-great-grandmother Es' voice threaded through her memory, woken by the complex ball of anger, strength and intent in Anita's voice. _More blessed are the kickers of ass that clear the path for peacemakers to do their job._

All Es, from eldest to youngest, (was she still the youngest? there might be another Es now, her mother had been trying to produce another egg for the last 100 years) . . . all _Es_ knew how peace, safety and well-being were usually secured, and it wasn't by verbal communication or negotiation.

"We have the implements you requested."

The healers had returned, without Fawn in tow. Lara's normally serene face and soothing voice presented an obvious facade. Judging from the tightness of jaw and rapid, stiff gait, she was having to work at maintaining her calm. Minette followed, arms full of the bits and bots Es had suggested they prepare for the impromptu transfusion.

"Okay then. Let's do this." Es stood next to Edward's cot. The air around him was bitter with herbs and his body's own unbalanced chemistry; at the base of Edward's neck his pulse fluttered, pushing fast against the thin, almost translucent skin. "Is that a gourd?"

"Scrubbed and scalded inside and out." Minette looked justifiably proud of her improvisation. She rotated the bowl-shaped object for inspection. "I cut a hole in the side. That's the longest unused quill we had, held in place with a plug of beeswax."

It was going to be awkward. "That end is as sharp as you could get it? It needs to pierce the skin at an angle. Lara, after you get the quill into the vein hold it steady. Minette, sit on the stool and position the gourd so the angle is maintained. About this high." Bleed into the gourd, and simple gravity feed and the movement of Edward's own blood should do the rest. After that -- well, Es thought it would only take a minute or two to know if Edward would die or live.

"Just so I'm straight. You're a weredragon. Do you know . . .? " Anita looked as much in need of a transfusion as Edward, her natural dramatic stark black and white coloring exaggerated by exhaustion and stress.

"We're not like lycanthropes, Anita. My family has stories of were-transmission occurring after years of exchanging bodily fluids between partners. And in those anecdotes, both partners were female." No one here needed to know the life-cycle of Es, she decided. "Men are extremely resistant to . . . contagion."

Anita's shoulders relaxed subtly. "Good."

"But my blood will probably change him in small ways. Edward should have greater resistance to common illness, most poisons and venoms. He will heal faster," Es said absently. She positioned her hand over the gourd, and shook her head at Minette's offer of a small, silver knife. Certainly the knife would break her skin, but for sustained bleeding she needed to do something she hadn't bothered to practice for the last fifty or so years.

_Mother would lecture me until my ears bled._ Heat and energy seared the nerves along her right arm as Es struggled to complete an exercise she'd learned as a child: targeted partial transformation, a single digit on her hand. Her control was far from fine. The entire hand changed.

"Oh." Minette went rigid with shock, hands still clamped around the gourd. 

"It's okay." Es hooked one razor claw into her wrist. Bright red blood spilled into the gourd and pooled. "Anita, move in beside Lara and put your fingers on Edward's pulse. Get a base line, then call out if it changes. Lara, insert the quill into his vein."

A small amount of blood trickled down Edward's wrist as the quill slid into flesh. Minette tilted the gourd slightly, and the color of the quill's shaft changed from milky white to brown. 

From the corner of her eye, Es was aware of Spike's abrupt departure. 

"I can't believe this is working." Lara risked a glance upward, then refocused on Edward. "The bloods should be mixing now, and he's not having a fit."

"Bonus." Why had she gone so long without changing? Es laughed, tickled by teasing surges of power radiating from her changed hand. Why had she gone so long without flying? The air she held in her mouth, tasted against the back of her palate, was poor in the scent of gold . . . but a huge amount of silver piqued her interest.

"Es. Your eyes have changed. Keep it together." Anita's voice rang with command and warning.

"You sound like Grandmother." Es exhaled a deep, deliberate breath. "All that steely authority. I think you'd rather fight alone, but you'd make a great general." 

_Danger._ She was losing it. The global refocus of senses that occurred just before an intentional shift gave Es expanded awareness of her own actions. 

_Suspension of the now, young Es. Stasis. Then the will can direct and shape the action you desire._ The memory of Grandmother's mind-to-mind instruction was accompanied by impressions of barbed wire and razor-edged scales. _This is a learned skill, not instinctual like first flight. What am I trying to tell you?_

_Practice, practice, practice._ Es had received a quick swat from Grandmother's tail for her impertinence. 

"Es. Your arm is still changing."

_Stasis!_ Es gritted her teeth and told her dragon to _back off._ "His pulse?"

Anita concentrated. "Stronger. His skin feels warmer. Less clammy." Cautious relief altered her voice and body language.

"Enough for now then." And maybe more than enough. Even though the actual amount of blood donated had probably been less than a pint, her body felt like a shell, light dry material that could be cracked and discarded like chaff. Es withdrew the claw from her vein and tried to reverse the transformation. "Caloriessss. Food. What did you bring?"

"Flatbread and honey." 

With her left hand Es snatched the flatbread from Minette, dunked it in the proffered pot of honey. She dropped the whole thing into her mouth and quickly repeated. Sugars and carbs hit her blood, helping tip the balance away from changing. Little by little Es returned her hand to its humanform.

"He rests easier." Lara wound cloth bandage around the hole in Edward's vein. Her hands were shaking. "His breathing and action of heart is much better. Nearly normal." She stood, looking only at Anita. "May we leave him in your care?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to sit down. If you need me, give a yell." Es staggered to the nearest chair and collapsed. Giving Edward her blood had been no big thing. Skirting the edge of transformation -- that threw her entire system into shocky imbalance. "Or shake me, if I don't respond. I think I'm going to sleep for a while."

 

**BUFFY: SPELUNKING WITH REVENANTS**

No matter how many times she found herself underground, in tight places, with little to no air and light, Buffy still took a few seconds to remark with snark on the experience. _Holes in the ground mean nothing good. Hate the holes in the ground._ Xander's voice, a memory from forever ago brought a pang of love and loss. Had her friends made it away from the cataclysm? Had they put down the First?

Her life was a series of unanswered and unasked questions. But this wasn't the time to revisit.

Buffy kept her eyes tightly closed as she pulled herself downward, moving with surprising speed behind Riddick. Ease of passage seemed to confirm that this tunnel was more than just a casual excavation. It didn't take long, a few seconds, for the dirt to turn from dry to damp to unpleasantly moist. _Not far to the basement,_ had just come to mind when her groping hands found air instead of earth. A strong push of her feet propelled her out of the tunnel. She landed on Riddick.

"Back to back." For a moment he held her full length against his body, then his hands turned her around. 

"Your wish. Etcetera." Again Buffy thought how much like Spike he felt, with the addition of body heat. She opened her eyes. For a moment there was no perceptible change between between eyes-closed and eyes-open. Damp, vile odor filled the air around them.

"Meters or feet?"

"Feet." She could feel Riddick's arm move against her own, a change of position. Space Dude was nailing the communication thing with impressive finesse.

"Twelve by twenty-four space, ceiling about three feet above us. One exit, on your three. Four revenants, at two, six, seven and nine."

Something tackled Buffy below the knees, something that bit down hard into her calf.

"I don't think so." Slayer instinct, slayer anger flared. The borrowed knife had a good edge. She worked it through the throat of the thing holding her leg with one hand as the other reached to intercept incoming in response to Riddick's repeated call of "three." A brittle, no longer used windpipe crunched under her grip. 

"Next time prioritize your information better."

There was very little noise for a fight, and what noise there was seemed inappropriate. Creaking and groaning sounds, like old wood stressed by wind in an ancient forest, created a mental picture reinforced by the sensation of bundles of twigs striking her around the upper torso and face. While certainly squirmy and enthusiastic, the revenants in the dark seemed weaker than the one Buffy had encountered upon arrival. Her knife passed through a last bit of tough sinew, but the detached head remained firmly attached to her leg, a painful twice-dead weight.

"Dammit." The second revenant was clutching and digging into her arm, kicking ineffectually at her legs as she held it fairly easily at arm's length. Buffy positioned the knife below her fingers and began sawing through dried flesh below her strangle hold. While lack of bloody mess was certainly a bonus, the weird squeak of knife blade working through leathery fibrous material – animated leathery material – was disturbing. When the weight of the body fell away, Buffy tossed the head into darkness with a sigh of relief.

"Four down." Riddick sounded amused. "You done with this?"

The weight on her leg disappeared. Numbness spread from the bite point up toward her knee. "Thing bit my leg, It was definitely not a pleasure." Buffy stamped her leg and squinted into the dark. "Do they glow, a little?"

"Yeah. Like toadstools. Hang onto my belt."

Warm, gritty fingers placed her hand onto the belt in question. The front of the belt. "Okay." Buffy eased around behind him, fingers gliding equally over leather and skin. "I'm definitely on your six."

"And thinking about adding another odd number?"

Buffy gave him a little push, wondering if he could see her blushing in the dark. "A torch would be all kinds of useful right now."

"Manmade stonework," Riddick said. He moved deliberately. Not too fast, not too slow. "Old, settled into the ground. Corridor leading north to south, in good shape."

"Toward the hold."

"Yeah." Riddick kept walking. "Something ahead. Tunnel's wider and higher."

"Did that seem too easy? Mine were all dried up." Air quality improved slightly with movement. It improved further when she kept her nose pointed at Riddick's back: honest, healthy dirt, fresh sweat, with a note of leather on body-warmed air . . . and suddenly Buffy thought about just how long it had been since she rolled around on smells like those.

"Mmm. Bones."

The comment was quickly explained as Buffy's foot rolled over, then crunched something on the floor. "They don't use full sentences in Future Space?" Whatever she had kicked was smallish, possibly not human. She let go of Riddick's belt and stood, finding dark within dark shapes coalescing into rudimentary sight. A sketchy outline, as if someone had drawn an image in charcoal on black construction paper, created the impression they were walking toward a void centered in a wall of obsidian. Knowing instinctively that Riddick was still only inches away from her, Buffy walked toward the wall and extended her fingers.

Her spidey sense went wild. Little flashes of energy spiked through her fingers and wrist. Buffy jerked her hand away, backing toward Riddick. He put a hand on her shoulder as he stepped past her toward the wall.

"Feels like rock to me. Looked like you got zapped."

"Just -- surprised. Energy, but not electricity," Buffy said slowly. "If this is the outer foundation of the keep, this wall might also be a magical energy fence to discourage burrowing pests. Do you see any more revenants?"

"Not moving. Got some mummified remains around us in the bone field. They've been working on this hole for quite a while. Longer than the four days since Kiernan's people supposedly did their last scan of the ground upstairs."

"Wow. You get talkative when the lights go out." The implication in his observation seemed depressingly correct. As they'd already found out, not everyone in the keep was con-vampire. "Is that all you see?"

"Scratches along the edge of the breach that look like symbols. Random deposits of organic material between the symbols."

"Eww. Revenant bits? Giles will need to check this out." Air movement told her Riddick had passed her in the dark. "Riddick?"

"No sign of them past the hole. Interesting. This side's lined with silver."

"How do I get eyes like yours?" Buffy took a step toward the opening. The hair on her arms stirred. "Coming through."


	4. Chapter 4

**RUPERT: ONE DAMNED THING AFTER ANOTHER**

"We don't have much time to prepare." Steam wreathed between her fingers as Rowan filled their cups with hot mint tea. Most of the spaces in the inner keep remained cool until midday while the sunstones collected enough new energy, depleted during dark hours, to transfer heat through the grid.

"No. We don't have much time." Rupert shut his eyes and let the fresh, green presence of the tea fill his senses of smell and taste. Breakfast had been a hearty meal. Eggs, flatbread and a scramble of grilled vegetables -- enough, it seemed, to feed a family of four. But between them, he and Rowan had eaten every crumb. Hunger and bone-deep weariness from their recent exertions had not been abated by a few hours sleep.

"Your eyes are still red, although your aura looks better. It was still flaring during council." Rowan rubbed at her own eyes. "How do you see us using our time until sunset today? I rather expect visits from councilors, after they've had a chance to think over this morning's decision."

Bright lozenges of sunlight angled down from small windows located nearly at the joining of wall and ceiling. Known variously as _the study, the retreat,_ or _the war room,_ the book-filled walls housed what Rupert thought might be the second largest collection of remaining written histories and records salvaged during the Years of Carnage. There were times when simply walking into the tower room nearly sent him to his knees in despair at what humanity had lost.

Most of the library had come over with Millicent deBerg and her family on the treacherous journey from the Old Continent to the New. Amazing, really, Rupert thought, that two leaky boat loads of refugees had survived storm, shipwreck, and feral revenants to find the abandoned shell of what would become deBerg Freehold.

"Thinking about the original colony again? You're staring at the books."

Rowan's question focused Rupert's mind back into the now. "They had seven Master class mages, and at least 50 adepts among the settlers. With those masters the spells on these foundations were renewed. They woke the sunstones, completed the harborage fortifications, and designed the walled gardens. Today I am the only Master class mage remaining to deBerg -- although you are my superior in raw power, your training is still --"

"A refrain that becomes tiresome." Rowan made a face. "It's not that I don't believe the statement to be true. You must admit my education has not been a priority of late."

"Your education has always been a priority. But learning how deBerg functions practically has left little time for the mysticals. I have been turning this over in my thoughts . . ." Rupert took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He suspected Rowan would have objections to the course of action he was about to suggest. "We need to petition the Isle to send us a teaching Mage. They made the offer just after we lost your parents and all our adepts." 

Rowan's eyes narrowed as she studied his face and posture. Rupert met her eyes, trying to smother an internal dialogue that had been lately pointing out that a teacher would not only give them the chance to do a more thorough job of evaluating citizens for adept training, but allow Rupert to gently dissolve the overly-intimate relationship that had grown between himself and the young Queen. He wasn't sure which facet of the tentative plan held more appeal for him. 

"That was seven years ago. It's been two years since we had any word from the Isle. The coughing sickness ravaged their own population; there may be none they wish to exile. And who would we send with such a message? I will not spare Kiernan for such a lengthy journey." 

"Hardly an exile. The Isle would never force relocation on any citizen." Rupert frowned at her. "There's no reason to fight me on this. You and I have attempted the Spell of Distant Speech only one time. We can try again. If that fails, well, I would prefer not to send Kiernan, but . . ." 

"Who can we spare? Raimund: gone to Nightworld, seemingly of his own accord. Thomas and Jannifer Davies: lost to bliss addiction. Nona Field, John Mason: probably lost to bliss addiction. Our population is so small that the loss of five viable citizens could make a significant impact on the future of the freehold." Rowan's words came to an abrupt halt. Her hand moved to smooth down the fabric of her skirt, over waist and hip.

To his sorrow, Rupert understood the meaning behind her words and instinctive gesture. "Rowan. This is deBerg. Our women are not breeding cattle. They choose their own mates, their own time to bear children."

Rowan's chin came up, her eyes blinking to ward away looming tears. "Rupert. If I were to choose --"

Thunderous collision against the study doors stopped Rowan in mid-sentence. A beading of nervous perspiration rolled across Rupert's forehead and temples as Kiernan burst into the room without his usually double knock.

"Get off yer arse and attend me, boy. The Riddick and Lady Buffy have popped themselves down an unreported revenant burrow on the west side of the keep."

It was with a disproportionate sense of relief that Rupert abandoned contemplation of Rowan's reproductive responsibilities, although when the full implication of Kiernan's words sank in that relief fled, whimpering.

"Unreported revenant burrow?" Rowan understood first. Outrage cracked her voice as she followed with the obvious, terrible question: "In a patrol area?"

"Yes."

Rupert spun on his heel and located a storage tube standing in a basket near the desk. He carefully extracted the ancient vellum map and coaxed it to unroll. At his elbow, Rowan positioned glass scroll weights along the edges to keep the map from curling back into itself.

"West side? Where?"

"Here." Kiernan pointed. "Midway between the largest of the buried Builders' cellars and the keep." 

In all of deBerg's silver-reinforced exterior foundations, there were only two possible subterranean entry points. And it seemed the most accessible of these entry points had been located by revenants.

"The western cellar door. Rupert, we need to go down there." Rowan was already moving purposefully away from the desk, past Kiernan. "I don't wear my knives to council meetings."

Rupert reached beneath the desk for his own. He kept sets of long and short knives in most of the keep's rooms where he and Rowan habitually worked. "Kiernan's men will have a spare weapon for you." 

"Take this." One of Kiernan's fiercely sharp long knives changed hands. "Don't run, Rowan girl, and you _will_ let me lead."

"I understand the comport of War. Send one of your men to fetch the vampire Spike." Rowan's eyes were feverishly bright. Determined.

It was an intuitive request that made Rupert feel a bit dull, but very proud of Rowan. Her mind had always been like this, leaping between the known and unknown; between what was, what is, and what might be. The girl had been born with a vast natural affinity for magical energy, and an intellect that held the potential to wield that energy. An intellect that held potential to be the greatest Queen deBerg had ever known.

Kiernan rumbled a laugh. "Aye. Slate is just outside. He'll be most pleased to find your vampire and guide him to the cellar."

Slate, Rupert thought as Kiernan issued his order, was most un-pleased to be given such a task. But Kiernan's men were universally well-trained . . . a moment of mental approbation tainted by the existence of an undiscovered revenant burrow. The possibility such an oversight might be deliberate was every bit as horrifying as Raimund's desertion to Nightworld.

Rupert followed Rowan, who crowded against Kiernan's heels as he led the way down the tight spiral of stairway stretching between tower and ground floor quarters. It was a dizzying exercise at speed. Rupert kept his hand on the rail, his eyes fixed on a floating distant point, and trusted his feet's knowledge of the stairs to move him safely along. He had never fully grasped all the subtle reasons for the oddities of the Builders' design. He had come to believe, however, that each oddity of architecture and design did, indeed, have meaning or rationale.

The precious vellum map, one of three documents amazed settlers had found remaining in deBerg's vast, abandoned structure, showed the land around deBerg had several clusters of subterranean constructions. The settlers called them _cellars_ , but they could have been used for storage, or prisons, no telling clues remained. Most had already been filled in with earth and rubble when the settlers arrived. The two largest of these cellars had been linked to the keep by underground tunnels. Access doors for these existed in the foundation of deBerg. 

Settlers found the east door blocked with solid stone. The west door was open, but only a few yards of rubble choked space was accessible beyond the door. Incredibly, lingering spells of protection hovered over both doorways. Necessity for the spells became obvious as the settlers verified that only these doorways broke the continuity of deBerg's silver-reinforced exterior foundations.

Yearly renewal of the keep's protective spells had been uninterrupted from the time of deBerg's re-settling. Even following the death of Rowan's parents and all the keep's adepts, with Rupert himself wracked by fever and cough, renewal had not faltered. The memory was precious to him: Rowan's small, woebegone face as they trudged through the vaults only days after so much loss. The resolve and command in her high, childish voice as she joined him chanting the renewal spells. His awed realization of how much power resided in the girl as her anguish-fueled will flowed into the bones of deBerg and left every protection spell in the freehold incandescent.

She'd collapsed, of course, unprepared for the physical effects such an effort placed on an adept. Rupert had carried her back to her room, light as a bird in his arms. Both their faces showed wet lines where tears had fallen. 

Valiant, contrary, imperious, honorable, beautiful Rowan. And no longer that child.

 _Still, your student,_ Rupert reminded himself, resolutely changing the focus of his eyes from the way the straight line of her back curved into woman's hips. deBerg's charter included affirmation of rights acknowledged in every remaining free human society, including a woman's right to choose her sexual partners. He knew the appellation _Virgin Queen_ was true only in that Rowan had not yet chosen a formal partner. Her early maturation had included bed partners of both sexes, all nearly her own age, and had resulted in no unequivocal emotional connection.

_If I were to choose . . ._

Dread and hope coiled around each other, creating an almost physical pressure around Rupert's heart. 

 

**SPIKE: MOVE DIRECTLY TO ROBBERS CAVE STAGE 3**

"Weaver! Hobbs! Report. How far did you scout?"

In echoing distant space, Kiernan's voice sounded so much like a gruff impersonation of Sean Connery that Spike chuckled, then chuckled again as his stiffly uncomfortable guide threw an apprehensive look over his shoulder. The narrow stairway, barely wide enough for two men to walk side-by-side, was clearly meant to discourage hordes from descending. Or ascending, as it seemed the case might be. The guard he followed certainly was trying to defend his back by keeping as much of it as possible against the wall while still going downward a step at a time. Spike noted the man had raised the heavily quilted collar of his vest so it covered the back of his neck. 

This lad wouldn't be offering snackies to a visiting vampire. Too bad. Spike was beginning to find his hunger a distraction. 

"Did exactly what you told us to, didn't we Hobbs? Bottom of the stairway to the end-point of the first zed. First two vaults are clear."

They came to the end of the stairs, his guide quickly adding his presence to the safety of his fellows. Spike made a rapid inspection of Kiernan's day patrol: a total of eight, including Kiernan. Three of the men carried lanterns with those glowing rocks they called _sunstones_. Two men carried lit torches: light _and_ defense. 

"What's that mean: end-point of the first zed?"

"Well done, Slate. You found him quickly. Thank you for joining us, Spike. Weaver is speaking of the design of the corridor and vaults." Rowan had been standing further along from the bottom landing, nearly in full dark, her hand resting against a stone wall.

"Been down the other side of this place," Spike said. When she moved back toward the light, he could see Rupert in a similar stance, several feet ahead of where Rowan had stood. Probably both working the mojo. "Know the stairways mirror each other. Couldn't find any other entry points to below ground level. Didn't go further than the bottom of the eastern stairs."

She raised her eyebrows, smiled and nodded eagerly, a moment of purest deja vu: not only did the witch look like Willow, bint had many of her mannerisms as well. 

"A single corridor runs from the bottom of the stairway to the southern end of the keep, but not in a straight line. Can you imagine five zeds stacked upon each other? The letters' lines are the corridor. To each side of the corridor legs, a triangular vault is created. A single doorway on each section of corridor opens to one of the vaults. This same pattern is, as you say, mirrored on the keep's eastern side."

Spike thought about it. Shook his head. "Seems weirdly inefficient."

"It does. But the arrangement provides far more storage than we need." Rupert stepped to the edge of light and beckoned to Kiernan. "Slowly. Torchmen in front, lanterns to the back. Spike, would you walk with me?"

"What are we hunting?" 

"Possibly Buffy and Riddick. Possibly revenants."

"Oh. Should have known." Only Buffy could romp off for a bit of sunshine and water sports, and end up somewhere underground. Making the effort to take a deep lungful of air, Spike matched his stride to Rupert's longer legs. "Don't smell people, dead or alive -- other than this lot. There's a lot of silver down here, though. Smells like mum's kitchen on polishing day. Noticed it on the other side as well."

"It's part of the protective grid the Builders laid down," Rupert said absently. "Please let me know if you scent anything more organic."

Kiernan and company were a steady, methodical bunch that backed each other up like seasoned commandos. Spike stayed in the rear with Rupert and Rowan as each vault along the zig-zag corridor was inspected and pronounced free of threat. When they turned from the bottom leg of the third zed onto the top leg of the fourth, Spike caught the unmistakeable scent of Buffy's blood.

"Slayer's here." The odor was intoxicating, pulling his canines erect. With an effort, he kept himself from vamping out. "Smell her blood. Not too much, though."

"Barely a scratch," Riddick's voice came from somewhere in the darkness ahead. "We killed the revenants, but coming through your back door seems to have shorted her out. Who's got my goggles? Toss 'em."

Spike was aware of one of the guardsmen throwing something as he pushed past Kiernan and the lead guard. "Buffy?"

"Ouch. Ouch. P'me down."

"You'll fall if I do."

Vampiric night sight revealed Riddick in the act of catching his goggles with one hand. His other hand was closed around Buffy's legs. The Slayer was slung over his back in a single shoulder carry position.

"Squishing m'nose."

"Put her down. I'll keep her upright, if necessary. What happened?" Closer to the pair of them, Spike could now see the mess of torn fabric on Buffy's calf. He could also see, just before Riddick began to slide Buffy off his shoulder, that the Slayer's hands were stroking the man's ass.

Instinctive, blood-deprived frustration brought a growl from his chest.

Riddick smirked. "Told her she could put her hands anywhere she wanted." He lowered her to the ground, waited until she seemed to find her feet, then pointed her in Spike's direction. Buffy took two steps, wobbling like a drunk.

"I've got you." Spike wrapped his arms around her. She sagged against him, muttering bits of nonsense. He glared at Riddick over the top of her head. "Don't feel special. Muscular ass cheeks in leather are to the Slayer as baby kittens are to a Trellsnert breakfast buffet."

"Clem no longer eats kittens." Buffy's voice was gaining coherence. 

The guardsmen with torches had continued their slow approach. Riddick fixed his goggles into place. "Obscure, but I think I get your drift."

"How many revenants did you kill?" Rupert demanded. "Were any inside the hold?"

"Six. On the far side of your door." Riddick waited, back against stone as the last of Kiernan's guard rushed after the Rupert and Rowan. 

"Spike. What are you waiting for? I want to hear what magic Giles says . . ." Buffy pushed off against his ribs, weebled slightly, then got her balance. "Riddick?"

"I'm going back up top. May be gone for a while. Feel like stretching my legs and taking a closer look at the land out there." 

It wasn't a bad idea, Spike thought. And not just because he suddenly wanted to keep distance between Buffy and Riddick. They needed more intel about the place, about the people, about the monsters. He saw Buffy nodding like a bobble-head doll.

"Slayer thinks it's a good idea. Don't let the drawbridge hit you in the ass on your way out."

"Think we're probably going to fight at some point in our relationship?" 

Riddick's voice made Spike think of the purring rumble of a big jungle cat happily crouched over a fresh kill. "Probably. But again, that doesn't make you special. I fight with everyone."

"I get that." Riddick faded off into darkness.

"Oh, quit sniffing his butt and hurry up." Buffy was stumbling after the fading light of the guard's lanterns, growing more sure-footed with each step. 

"Was not! Person who had their nose in that general location -- "

"Shh! I hear Giles."

It would have been difficult for anyone in the vicinity with even one partially working ear _not_ to have heard Rupert. Bloke sounded like a kindergartener the day after Halloween, wound up and slightly crazy with lack of sleep and too much sugar.

"Makes no sense. Makes no sense." Rupert darted back and forth through an arched opening in the side of the corridor. "This should be sealed."

Buffy pushed her way past the guard to stand next to Rowan by the rubble-strewn opening. "You're going in and out like crazy. Riddick came through okay. Why did I get the mystical taser?"

"I'm not sure. There's a foundation spell of general protection here, with a specific block against vampires," Rowan said.

"Why? Why? Why?" Rupert squatted, examining the field of debris. He rummaged in what looked like a bundle of rags and came up with a partially shrunken head. He stared at it, blinking rapidly. "Kiernan -- something to wrap this in."

"Trophy revenant head, too big for a keychain. How many were there? Looks like a fair amount of remains in there." Spike saw Rupert's hands shake as he bagged the head. Something significant had happened here, probably something involving the magics.

"Only six," Buffy said. "Riddick thought more had been trying to get past the door for a while, though."

"Yes. I'm afraid so. Some of the protection runes on this side have been defaced. Er, Buffy . . . you wouldn't want to step back in here?"

"Er, I really wouldn't."

"Then we'll talk about it later." Bag of head tied to his belt, Rupert returned to their side of the wall. "Move them off, Kiernan. We need to make a temporary repair to our defenses."

They were barely around the bend in the zed when a minor shock moved through the ground beneath their feet. A loud whummmpf of sound followed, then a cloud. Rupert and Rowan caught up with them a few seconds later, both grim and ghostly with dust.

"That may have been a bit too much," Rowan muttered, brushing at her eyes. "I hope we didn't create a sinkhole near the foundation."

"Not at all. Kiernan -- send someone along to survey the area, from the top of the wall. I don't want anyone walking around that quarter until I have a chance to evaluate." Rupert stopped speaking long enough to cough up a quantity of dust. "Buffy and Spike, would you mind going directly back to wait for sundown with the others? Rowan and I have responsibilities -- where's the Riddick?"

"On a big old journey of exploration," Buffy said. "He wanted to see more of the outside."

Spike laughed at their expressions, a matched set of white-faced mimes with eyes wide, mouths hanging open. "Trust me, it's better for all of us. Whatever Riddick's special purpose is, it will be more running with the bulls and less nattering around the fireplace."

"There are no bulls on the grasslands. Maybe a few bison, although it's been years . . ." Rupert trailed off. "Oh. I think I understand. You're probably correct."

"Buffy needs to have her leg tended to. I need a hot drink to wash away this dust." Rowan started up the stairway, leaving a fine eddy of dust in her wake. "And we have many, many things to discuss before the feeding tonight. Don't just stand there, Lord Giles."

Rupert fell in behind her like a whipped puppy.

"Right there with you, mate," Spike muttered, observing Buffy kept one hand on the wall as she climbed. She'd gotten tagged good and proper by the magics, something meant for vampires. 

He made a mental note to be wary of highly decorated doors in this universe.

**ES: A RACE BETWEEN EDUCATION AND CATASTROPHE**

"We need to force them to send us home. It's their fault. They brought us to this horrible place, and they must send us home. Are you listening? Es -- are you listening?"

"For. The last. Hour." There was a reason lengthy interaction with groups of humans had never been part of Es' life. Her people had naturally limited sociability. Years of living alone, communing with the plant and animal kingdom, had constructed a solid veneer of placid even-temper and acceptance of the minimal intrusion of human instability into her existence.

Even solid veneers could crack and warp.

"I can't believe any of the real people want to stay here." Fawn's ample chest heaved theatrically. Her eyes glittered with tears of reproach and self-pity as she stomped from the room. "I will be with the healers, if anyone cares."

A building knot of desire for dragon-mayhem prevented Es from uttering the comforting reassurances she had been using with the woman during the last, interminable, forty-eight hours. Now, it was instinct to reach for her family connection to find her own comfort. But that essential place where dragonkind psyches merged was still vacant. 

"Es. Hey. Down here."

Es blinked, quelling perfectly normal violent responses. Spike had moved from his spot at Buffy's side on the couch, and was crouching beside her chair. 

"Your eyes." He tapped a finger to his temple. "They're changing, pet. Shall I follow, and eat her?"

There was a malicious twinkle in his own eyes that told her the suggestion was not wholly in jest. Healing laughter pushed away panic. In all her years of life she had interacted with few vampires, and none with a sense of humor. "Best not. If we were all selected as integral parts of a cosmic solution to Queen Rowan's problem, all parts will probably be necessary."

"And if she was selected to be dinner?"

"She's fortunate we're not voting on that question. Anita -- where the hell are we?" Edward Forrester was sitting upright. His voice was rough, his skin flushed, but there was icy awareness in the blue eyes that evaluated his surroundings.

Es saw those eyes inspect her rapidly, then move on. Anita was just coming through the door to the adjacent room where a couple of night soil stools had taken up residence among the other bric-a-brac Rowan and Rupert had thought their guests might need.

"We're not in Kansas, that's for sure. Or New Mexico, Arizona, or any other bit of geography you'll recognize." Anita pulled the closest stool next to his bed. She began speaking rapidly in a low voice.

"Know how this story goes." Spike changed position so he could watch the conversation. "Ever look at a lad and think -- nothing but trouble there?"

"Whether or not that's the Anita Blake from my bit of the multiverse," Es said, her own eyes riveted on Forrester and Anita, "if that's the man the vampires call _Death_ who hunts with her, he can spell trouble in a screaming, 300 point font. How's Buffy?"

Spike accepted the change of topic without blinking. "No permanent damage done. Leg's almost healed already. She was nearly back to normal when she drifted off."

"Can you tell me more about what happened? There was rather a muddle when you got back."

"Wasn't there for most of it." Spike rummaged in his pocket, then pulled out a crushed, nearly empty pack of cigarettes. He looked at it mournfully for a full minute before returning it to his pocket. "Buffy and Riddick killed a bunch of revenants that Rupert thinks were trying to break into the hold. One nailed her leg, barely drew blood. Coming through the door into the hold disagreed with her: spell to keep dead things on the other side, Rupert says."

"Buffy's not . . ." Although there was something about the young woman, a breadth and depth, a weight of experience Es rarely felt in humans.

"Dead? She has been. Isn't now. Long story."

 _Stupid chit. You need to understand how power works. How your power works with the energies of the earth. Without that understanding, you will remain a child. A cripple._ "What else?" 

"Spike. Catch them up. Tell everyone." Buffy yawned and stretched, reaching down to itch at her bandaged leg. "The big is -- there seems to be a pro-Vampire camp inside the hold. More research is strongly indicated."

"I'd like to hear what Spike has to say, but first -- Es." Anita was trying to get her attention. "If you have a moment?"

_No good deed goes unpunished._

"Of course." In her peripheral vision Es saw Spike move back to sit beside Buffy. She stood and walked to Forrester's bed. "Yes?"

"Anita says they gave me some of your blood. What are you."

Demand, not question. Energy danced over her clan markings, pushing her toward change. She stood, slowly, then took the eight steps necessary to reach Forrester's bedside. "I am Es Ringwald. Dragonkin. I do not believe my blood will make you less, or more, than human." Inside her own head there was a vast space, a distance. Her dragon, silent and complacent for so long, had thoroughly woken, and was unemotionally weighing the situation. Deciding whether or not to excise a threat to Es' existence.

"I've never heard of weredragons."

"We don't take out ads in weekend editions of major newspapers. We don't let incontinent scholars piss factoids into the stream of academia." Es saw the calculation, the mental shuttling of beads betrayed by micro-expressions twitching at Forrester's eyes. "You were dying, mostly from blood loss. Excuse the hell out of me for bleeding into you."

Forrester's eyebrows twitched upward. He relaxed, minutely. "No lycanthropic transmission possible, then? You told Anita there could be other side effects."

"The Grandmothers put chance of transmission from female to female at one in 100,000 -- after five to fifty years of daily exposure to various bodily fluids. Modern history for my clan is considered to be the last 10,000 years. During that time there is only one instance of transmission to a male -- a deliberate, difficult undertaking finally accomplished by using preternatural energy." Why was she going into so much detail? Her dragon coiled and shrieked at her: _too much information_. A hunter of preternatural creatures should know as little about her kin and clan as possible. "Dragonkin are born, not changed. For a time, my blood will probably give your body the ability to heal itself faster. Possibly fight off infection or poisonous substances." 

"Universal panacea. _That_ I have heard rumors of. Have dragonkin ever been hunted for their blood?"

Asking the question, his lips had barely moved. Es took another step closer to Forrester's side, letting her dragon fill her eyes. "Has man tried to fly to the sun? How'd that work out for Icarus? Es are not prey, Mr. Forrester."

He relaxed onto the felted lump of what passed for a pillow in deBerg, letting his eyes slide away from hers, letting his eyes close. "Later. We'll talk later."

Humans. Always wanting to talk. Usually about things they had no right . . . Es turned away from the bed and found every waking soul in the room apart from Forrester was watching her.

"What?"

"This will be a good time to do a quick recap." Buffy waved at the seat Es usually occupied across from the couch. "Anita -- is Edward still awake?"

"I am." Forrester's eyes stayed closed.

"Did Anita tell you who we all are?"

"I have a rudimentary report." Forrester's voice seemed to even out, gain strength with every word he spoke. "If I have questions, I'll ask them."

"Okay then. Mina's in a trance, but she promised she could hear us. In a few hours it will be sundown. Rowan and Giles have a plan to let Spike and Mina feed on two of their citizens." Buffy scratched at her leg again. "After that piece of Little Theater we're all going to need a long talk with Double R. I learned a few things in the last year or so. In a war, it isn't good enough to stumble from one fight to the next, if your goal is winning the war. I can only speak for myself, and probably Spike: if I'm going to be fighting a war, I expect to win."

 _I expect to win._ Es' inner dragon uncoiled in anticipation. Her anxiety over inability to touch family ties lessened. "General Summers," she said lightly, "my Grandmothers would absolutely love you."


	5. Chapter 5

**RUPERT: SUBMIT TO CHAOS**

"This isn't something you can negotiate or dictate. Do that voodoo that you do so well, and make room for all of us."

It wasn't what he and Rowan had planned. Rowan had spent the afternoon in delicate negotiations with the council, finally reaching a compromise. Two councillors, not counting Kiernan, could watch the feeding. Now Buffy demanded the entire company of strangers . . .

 _Strangers._ Rupert gnawed his lower lip. Living souls pulled from their own places and times. For the purpose of _salvation_. Merlyn's prophecy had begun to bob into his consciousness at unexpected moments, accompanied by thoughtful notations to himself to the effect that he and Rowan had no futtering idea of what they had done.

"Very well. I'll arrange the matter." Once he gave in to her demand, Rupert realized he was grateful for Buffy's insistence: when running full speed into a dark tunnel of unknown terrain, with no idea what waited in between, or at the terminus, one should have armed allies at one's back. When he explained his reasoning to Rowan, he found she was in full favor of the idea. 

"They're here for a purpose. We cannot exclude them. From anything." 

"As Queen, you get to explain to our people _why_ if questions are asked." Rupert could hear the faintly querulous waver in his voice. Rowan's aura was banked low, but steady. Her face showed none of the ragged, bone-deep weariness he felt. He made his way back to Buffy, feeling like his century mark had been passed sometime in the last few days.

"We're moving the feeding from council chambers into the courtyard of the guard," he told Buffy. "There will be natural light -- three-quarters full moon tonight -- and plenty of seating. Strategic positions for Kiernan's guard."

"You are the man." Buffy grinned as she delivered the cryptic sentence.

Of course he was a man. Rupert gnawed his lip some more, and wondered how well he would fare if he found himself in Buffy's word. Or Riddick's. He spent a few minutes more with Rowan, a few minutes with Kiernan, explaining and subtly reassuring. It was a masterful performance, when he was so far from reassured himself.

 

A quiet group assembled under mostly clear night skies. The courtyard was small; an oval, cobblestone paved area between the muster hall entrance in the outer keep and one of the entrances to the barracks in the inner keep. Two benches occupied the center of the courtyard. Stools for the witnesses waited, mostly in shadow near the walls.

Raven and Snow sat next to each other, near Rupert and Rowan, without speaking. Three of Buffy's people -- that's how he thought of them now -- also took seats without conversing. For a wonder, Forrester accompanied the group, walking unaided. From near death to full mobility in less than a day. Forrester's recovery was added to the extraordinarily long list of questions Rupert had about their guests. 

Lady Fawn had chosen not to attend: _She's back in the herbal bath, again,_ Es told him as she entered the courtyard. _I expect Lara and Minette to drown her soon._

This imagined scene cheered Rupert greatly for several seconds. Lady Fawn's demands were growing in frequency and volume. But fortunately, when Lara's patience ended, her apothecary skills took over. No one need be murthered when they could be given soothing teas especially blended to promote a good night's sleep. 

"Kiernan. I need to talk to Kiernan." Buffy stood next to Spike and Mina near the benches. 

Moonlight washed any color from the scene, turning it to a woodcut of black and grey lines. A somber scene. Rupert shivered. Rowan's fingers reached to clasp and release his in a swift, covert gesture of support. Somehow, Buffy had taken command of this undertaking. Rupert saw a long look pass between Raven and Snow, saw the tension in Snow's shoulders. They questioned Buffy's authority to take lead in this matter.

"Here, Lady Summers." In spite of the cool night air, Kiernan was stripped to his quilted vest, over which he had strapped the set of long knives the men called _Fang_ and _Claw_. A finely worked silver-link manica, a precious bit of armor Rupert knew to be a family heirloom, covered his left forearm.

"Their names are Jannifer and Thomas? Please bring them in now. I want them to hear the next bits. And before we get started, you will get those guards with the crossbows off their perches." 

Kiernan's hand went to his knives. "Securing this place . . . "

"For this -- my job. You can help if you want." Buffy folded her arms, trading glares with Kiernan. "But I won't have a spooked guardsmen putting an arrow into Spike or Mina."

"You're ver-ry sure of your ability to deal with two feeding vampires."

Rupert met Kiernan's eyes across the courtyard. He nodded.

"Trust her." Rowan's quiet words traveled around the tense space and brought Kiernan's hands away from his knives.

Kiernan returned to the muster hall. Shortly afterwards Buffy nodded and took her eyes from the skyline. With an element of unholy pageantry, Kiernan and two guardsmen escorted Jannifer and Thomas Davies to the benches. The siblings' faces were white and nervous, eyes locked onto the two vampires as they settled.

Buffy turned to face them. "Why are you here?"

Thomas answered first, clearing his throat once before he could speak clearly. "To serve the Lord and Lady, and share my blood."

"Serve the Lord and Lady and share my blood." Jannifer's answer rushed on the heels of her brother's. "Of my own will."

Thomas nodded eagerly. "Of my own will."

"Then here's the fine print: Spike and Mina aren't like your vampires. You are food, not blood-friends-with-benefits. They look at you and see steak tartare." Buffy paused. "It's going to hurt, but you'll live. Are you still in?"

Jannifer and Thomas stared at her, uncomprehending. Rupert heard Rowan sigh, and knew his sense of frustration was shared.

Buffy rolled her eyes. "I'm asking if you still agree."

"Yes." Spoken together. 

"Kiernan. Guardsmen. Audience: Spike's face is going to change to show his demon. It's not that bad, don't panic. Mina's face will change less -- she's more like your vampires this way. Both of them will take blood from the neck. They'll stop feeding before Jannifer and Thomas are in danger from blood loss. There will probably be yelling, screaming and thrashing from the humans. If I step in to stop the feeding -- Kiernan, that's your cue to assist if necessary, but no trying to kill Spike or Mina." Buffy looked around the semi-circle of faces. "Everybody on the same page? Spike? Mina?"

"Feel like I'm performing for a bloody peep show," Spike said. "But, yeah."

"Yes." Mina drifted toward Thomas' bench. It was difficult to see where her feet met the ground. "I seldom feed from people who don't deserve to die. Stay near, Buffy."

Rupert felt Rowan's fingers creep back into his. He closed them in a tight grasp. The physical connection brought with it a heightened awareness of Rowan's aura and reinforced his own unease and defensive readiness. "We must trust her," he whispered her own words back to her. "Watch."

When Spike's face changed, Snow verbalized a thin wail of protest. Amazingly, the rest of the watchers were silent. Probably from shock, Rupert thought. Buffy had been correct on both counts. Spike's aspect was deformed and unpleasant, but bearable. And there was a certain amount of thrashing, gasping and choked screaming from the Davies siblings. While both vampires had more than enough physical strength to control their donor, it was Mina that Rupert found himself watching with horrified amazement. She pulled Thomas onto her lap, arms wrapped around him like a mother cradling a child. Her face was buried against his lower neck. After a shocked moment, Thomas began to squirm and drum his heels against cobblestone, while emitting a series of high, breathless screams of protest.

Pulling his eyes away to the other bench, Rupert saw Jannifer's hands beat uselessly against Spike's back. Her mouth was open in a silent scream that began to slacken even as he watched. The tableau utterly lacked the sensual surrender Rupert had previously witnessed during feedings. 

_May I taste you?_

After all these years that voice still resonated in Rupert's memory, warm as new fleece, clinging as honeycomb. Those long ago few days of observing Nightworld to fulfill his last apprenticeship requirement had been both frightening and exhilarating. Katerine Lockley, fair queen of Nightworld, was even in death a captivating beauty. All apprentices were cautioned about what to expect from such a sharing, an act that was not recommended as there was no way to judge how a person would respond to the experience. 

But he had wanted to _know._ Rupert had offered his wrist.

There was no haste as Katerine gathered his hand to her mouth, no hurry as her cool lips caressed his skin. Even when he relived the decades-old memory shivers of sensitivity rushed along his arm, over his ribs and downward. He could never decide when it was her teeth pierced his skin, but the first draw of blood felt better than any orgasm he had achieved in his young life. Only one strong pull and she disengaged, smiling. 

_You taste of power, young mage. You would be welcome in Nightworld._

Rupert had always counted himself fortunate that the fear that overcame him at her words overbalanced any desire for pleasure. He would have run, but his legs would not move. Rupert had watched her graceful departure, then staggered through Nightworld's labyrinth of lower corridors, nearly wetting himself before he made it to open air.

Here, now, not even the vampires looked to be truly enjoying the feeding. It was an act of need, of hunger, without the buffer of sexual misdirection. It was the act of a revenant, not a vampire.

Blood looked black in the moonlight. Spike's mouth came away from Jannifer's neck, clearly showing ink-tipped needle sharp canine teeth before his bumpy face returned to a normal visage. Jannifer pushed herself off the bench onto the ground, cowering and holding a hand to her neck.

"Mina." Buffy waited a moment, then touched the top of Mina's head. "Mina. Stop."

The vampire's head flew up, and this time several of the audience gasped audibly. Mina's face may not have changed like Spike's, but her eyes reflected red in the moonlight, and there was blood and madness on her face.

"Merlyn's stones." Kiernan drew one of his knives.

"Stop." Buffy touched Mina again, and this time the woman released her grip upon Thomas, shuddering and standing to put her back to the man she had been clutching so tightly only moments before. "Mina?"

"I can. Stop." A sinuous shudder ran through her shoulders and torso. "I am in control of my hunger." Mina turned, slowly, wiping her lips with her hand. "Buffy?"

"I know." 

Rupert wished desperately that _he_ knew the import of what had just happened. It took a long moment to realize he was on his feet, that Snow, Raven and Rowan were standing as well. "Buffy . . . "

She was still watching Mina. "Have Kiernan take Jannifer and Thomas somewhere safe, isolated from the rest of your people for now. Keeping in mind, Kiernan, that somehow there were guardsmen who "missed" the revenant burrow."

Kiernan growled something unintelligible, then went to lift Jannifer gently to her feet. "Lord Giles?"

"Put Nona and John with them as well. Provide for their greatest safety. Afterwards, join us in the library."

Buffy made a soft, sorrowful noise. "Of course it's going to be the library. Lead the way, magic Giles. Spike -- take Mina's arm?"

"Be a pleasure." 

The vampire looked so human in the moonlight, courteously offering his arm to the tall, wan, beautiful woman-shaped creature. 

"They were people, once. The Queens of Nightworld were people, once." Rowan's voice was pitched for Rupert's ears alone, a use of minor magics. "What we are born to, who we become, all a caprice of fate."

"I'm not sure I agree with that." Anita stared at them across the courtyard. "What we become. Choices are made, not by fate or gods or random chance. Easy or difficult, by omission or commission, we make choices that define who we are, who we become."

"Rupert. She heard me!"

"She has her own power." Rupert nodded at Anita. Here was something they had not expected. Since the death of the adepts, there had been no one in the freehold who had the ability to overhear their private conversations. 

Rowan seemed to shrink down into her practical winter cape. She remained silent as Rupert took her arm and led the procession from the courtyard. 

"Lord Giles." Snow waited under the archway. "Raven can act as our eyes and ears in this matter. I must return to the babes. And I cannot . . ." Her voice faltered. 

"I will listen for the council." Raven, the freehold's most undemonstrative citizen, took Snow into a quick embrace. "Get off to bed, little mother."

 

**BUFFY: DIRTY LINEN**

"There's a big, outer ring of stone. Thick walls, small rooms, mostly heated by fireplaces." Buffy's mental map of the freehold had been filling out nicely. Now, following Giles and Rowan into the big blank area at the center of her map, Buffy noted the change in stonework.

"Sort of traditional build," Spike agreed. He walked close to her side with Mina, and kept his voice low. "Crenellations and such shite on top the outer walls, place for guards to patrol."

"Then a break for a sidewalk wide enough to be a double-lane back home, after which another wall of rock."

"Inner sanctum. Got most of those black stones set into the masonry, up high. Whoever built this place --"

"Put some thought into repelling boarders," Buffy finished the observation. "These bits, this inner fortress --" her fingers trailed over stone as she walked, "looks laser cut to me. Knife-edge precision builders employed a good size posse here. Wish I could ask Xander what he thought."

"Had we but world enough . . ." Spike broke off, coughing in a forced manner. "Hope he got the Niblet away in time."

"An educated man." Mina still kept one hand lightly upon Spike's forearm. It was the first time she had spoken since the feeding. " _An hundred years should go to praise thine eyes, two hundred to adore each breast._ "

"Hey." Spike jerked away from her touch. "Poetry free zone here."

"It was his best, I think. Andrew turned from poetry after reading Godwin's treatise on political justice," Mina said.

"Bloody. Marvell died long before . . ." Spike trailed off. "You sayin'?"

"He was given the final kiss by a very beautiful Romanian refugee. They are -- were -- still together, last I knew. Their relationship always gave me hope for the future." She laughed, a throaty sound that seemed to contain both wonder and amusement. "I find myself admitting to a poverty of imagination. At no time did I envision a future like this one."

"Right there with you," Buffy muttered. 

The corridor ended at a huge vaulted chamber, like the common area in a small mall. In the center of the room, a metal trellis stretched from floor to ceiling, seeming to extend through an opening at the highest part of the vaulted space. Around them, people busily entered and exited through one of five arched doorways. There was a lot of staring and swerving away from Spike and Mina's vicinity. It was the largest group Buffy had seen together in the freehold, and all adults. Twenty, maybe thirty men and women, but no children. She filed the observation for later consideration as Double R led them straight to the trellis.

"And continuing with random bits from the Wayback Hundreds, that structure can't be safe."

When Giles put his weight on the first step of the spiral stairway, the framework seemed to shiver. "Perfectly safe," he called back over his shoulder. "Three at a time, please."

Buffy stood back with Spike and Mina and let the others make the climb. Mina's comment about the future seemed to rattle around between her head and her heart. Buffy couldn't remember the last time she'd created a pleasant fantasy about the future. Well, she'd had that lightning strike of certainty about beating the First, which wasn't the same as dreaming what it would be like to wake up in the morning with a man she loved, brush her teeth and hurry off to work at her own haute couture leather goods business. _Boots by Buffy._ And Dawn would be there, head of sales and distribution; and Willow would have mad skills in subliminal marketing . . .

"Buffy. Our turn." Spike shot a look over his shoulder as he started up the gerbil-run. "You with us?"

"Right behind Mina." 

Under her feet, the staircase felt stronger than it looked. Climbing cautiously, Buffy had a flashback of the new slayers swarming up rough stone stairs, leaving the Hellmouth alive. They would have joined with those defending above. Dawn. Willow. Xander. Her own Giles.

A shiver of anticipation brought goosebumps up on her arms. It was a premonitiony feeling Buffy recognized. Maybe it was transdimensional jet lag. Maybe it was something else. She'd felt something like it just before Spike's necklace activated to blast away any barrier between the sun's cleansing fire and the Mordor pit full of ubervamps: certainty of victory.

In another galaxy, far, far away . . . three strikes, and Team Sunnydale would have a new designated hitter. Ahead of Mina, Spike was still stealing glances back down at her. They'd saved that world. Again. Her friends and family had made it out of the cataclysm. Again. And Buffy knew, with perfect clarity, that she and Spike would never return to their world again.

 

"I apologize, there isn't enough seating for everyone."

Giles was nearly wringing his hands, clearly unable to decide to whom he should offer the three chairs and two stools.

"No worries. You, Rowan and the Lady -- Raven? -- take the chairs. Forrester should have a stool. The rest of us can sit on the floor." Buffy grinned at Rowan's instantly mulish expression.

"I can sit on the floor, as well. When Kiernan arrives, he can . . ."

"I should like to see you try and get Kiernan to sit."

"Sound exactly like ours, don't they?" Spike slid down against a convenient bookcase. "Smells like the Magic Box in here."

Old book breath, Buffy thought. Burned wax and bitter herbs for the high note, tortured leather and time-raddled paper for the low. The room looked like a comfortable combination of the old school library and the Magic Box. Although there was no fireplace, the air was warm and the stone underneath the thick braided wool rugs felt only slightly cool. Buffy sat down beside Spike, finding an absurd amount of comfort in Spike's presence, and the room's ambiance.

"Lord Giles. Introduce me properly." Raven seated herself in one of the chairs.

"Yes. Of course." Giles made a small bow that sent his shoulder length hair flapping like a pair of wings. "Citizen Judge Raven, it is my pleasure to introduce . . ." He went quickly around the room, ending with Buffy. "And we are missing two guests, the Riddick, who is currently somewhere outside, and Lady Fawn, who is being cared for by the healers."

Buffy thought she heard a note of disapproval creep in when he spoke of Riddick. "Don't go all judgy, Giles. Riddick's out on recon."

"You wouldn't want that one cooped up here, and bored," Spike said sagely.

Kiernan arrived at that moment, preventing Spike from expounding on what Riddick might do if he was bored. Buffy suspected Spike might have, based on his own inclinations, a lengthy list of possible entertainments.

"Time to fill in the blanks, Giles. Time for the rest of the story."

"I would certainly appreciate the unabridged version of why I'm here." Forrester had rejected the stool and seated himself next to Anita on the floor. He was still pale, but meeting his bright blue eyes brought a prickle of warning along the back of Buffy's neck. 

_Danger, Will Robinson._ It was worth noting when a vanilla human set her alarms ringing this loud. Es had her legs crossed in lotus position. Spike and Mina sat with their backs against the bookcases, Mina with her legs drawn up in a graceful pose. The vampire reminded Buffy of popular dorm posters, art deco women in trailing gowns.

"Spike and Mina, did you get enough blood to keep you going?"

"I should have a two-day safety window," Mina answered. "Then I will need to feed more deeply. I _will_ feed more deeply."

"I'm probably good for longer than that. Although haven't been feeding from humans, and that usually increases the time I can go between feedings," Spike said.

"Hunger rather than appetite rules your feedings?" Mina sounded wistful. "I have tried to feed from animals. In an emergency such feeding will sustain me. But it seems to increase the desire for human blood."

Spike snorted. "Reasons for my choice of cuisine are varied, and somewhat embarrassing. I . . ."

"Not now." Buffy held up her hand. "Not currently relevant to the situation. Who's going to tell me what went down here? Who's going to tell me the full story of how Rowan's brother went skipping off to join the blood-sucking fiends at the end of the rainbow?"

Oh, yeah. She'd touched a nerve there. Rowan was turning pink, lips and chin all screwed up into an expression Buffy had seen on Willow's face when she got all sputtery and defensive. GIles' mouth opened and closed, twice.

"I will do my best to explain. Rupert can provide any addenda necessary when I finish." Raven's voice had the same precise, inflexible quality Buffy associated with middle school math teachers. "You have never met Raimund. He is fifteen moons younger than Rowan. He had begun his eighth season cycle when his parents, deBerg's King and Queen, died in an epidemic of the bloody cough. Although both Rowan and Raimund were creche-raised, for some reason Raimund began increasingly convicted tirades on how different his life would have been, if only his parents had remained alive and concerned themselves directly in his welfare."

"You raise your children communally?" Mina asked.

"In the main. Parents can always decide what's right for their own children. Some guilds choose to keep their children in family or guild creches." Raven cocked her head and stared at Mina for a long minute. "Your children are not raised communally?"

Mina's eyes warned her of the probable reply, but Buffy held her tongue and didn't interrupt. It worried her, how much they, how much she, might be looking at people, places and things, but not seeing reality because of assumption and expectation on her part.

"Where I come from the most fortunate children stay with their parents until they become adults. Fortunate children, however, represent a minority of the population. There are so many children in less fortunate circumstances that, should I so desire, I could take one a day for food, and no one would ever know. Or care." Mina shrugged. "But I do not eat children."

Buffy wished she could jump in and reassure Raven that _her_ world was better, but she wasn't sure she could.

Raven's cold eyes traveled between Mina and Spike. "We hold our children very dear. Even the more demanding children. After what has occurred, I have suspicions regarding the development of Raimund's behavior and complaints. Rowan never claimed special privilege or expectation, and she was the deBerg heir until her fifteenth cycle. Also, a person of power in her own right."

"You think someone was influencing him?" Rowan leaned forward. "Raven? Rupert? You've never discussed this with me."

"Recent events have forced me to examine our recent past in greater depth," Raven evaded.

"I never imagined . . . I never thought . . ." Giles trailed off, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Raimund had convinced himself he was special, even before he fathered six children."

"Pardon me. Excuse me." Buffy held up one finger, pointed at Giles. "Kid was what -- 17 years old? And he had six children?"

"It's possible," Anita murmured. "I think I read that up to age 20 --"

"Narcissistic juvenile sex addict," Spike said. "Nothing could go wrong there."

"We don't understand what they need to get through the day." Buffy rounded on him. It bothered her too, but she was trying very hard to understand the subtleties of what was, essentially, an alien world. "Listen to what Raven is saying. I need your brain, Spike. As much as I need the rest of you." A sentence that should have been analyzed on a word-processor program before delivered verbally. Buffy winced. "I mean . . ."

"Understand what you mean." Spike smirked. "Quit interrupting. Let her get on with it."

"Six children is unusual at his age," Raven continued cautiously. "Raimund came early to sexual exploration."

"No doubt," Spike murmured, ignoring his own advice. "Sure they were all his? Getting the impression that paternity could be in question here."

Raven's glare, Buffy decided, was superior to her own. 

"Nonsense. Our women know how to identify paternity of children if necessary. Birthing records show it has been 80 cycles since any citizen could claim this number of offspring." Raven took a deep breath. "Katerine Lockley made a courtesy visit to deBerg just before Rowan's sixteenth cycle, before Lord Rupert formally passed the freehold into her care. Raimund was less than fifteen cycles of age."

"Minimal contact was enforced," Giles said. "All meetings between Rowan, Raimund and Queen Lockley were closely observed."

There was a careful lack of expression in both his voice and face. Which usually meant that he had strong opinions about the subject under discussion, Buffy thought. She'd probably need to poke at Rowan before he'd spill on what went down at those meetings.

"She was very . . ." Rowan took a deep breath. "Afterwards, I felt we had met as equals. Queen to Queen. There's still a sense of power in those memories. But we weren't anywhere near. Equals, I mean. She just had this way about her."

"And Raimund? What title did she give him?" Raven's question was meant for Rowan, but her eyes were fixed on Giles.

"Prince." Rowan answered. She flexed her shoulders and scooched around as if trying to get comfortable. "I can't tell you if she said it aloud, or in my head. Raimund asked me after Queen Lockley left deBerg, why we don't give title to all members of the ruling family as they commonly do in Flock Enclaves."

"He wanted to be recognized. He liked the thought of being called _Prince_?" Buffy asked.

"Being called _Prince Raimund_ would have made him extremely happy, and even more insufferable than he had become," Raven said bluntly. "Queen Lockley knew exactly what tune to play that boy."

"Did you catch her act from the wings, or were you in front row seats, Rupert?"

Giles' look of venomous dislike directed at Spike made Buffy almost feel she was back home in a Magic Box planfest.

"Of course I knew she was exercising her charms. Rowan and Raimund were warned. They've been educated in how to minimize or break glamor of the eyes. Their duties include meeting with vampire guests. Lockley's skills in this area are minimal."

"No vampiric skills were needed in this case. Nature provided Katerine Lockley the essential attributes necessary to catch and hold Raimund's attention. The fact those attributes will never be used to wet-nurse or bear children is incidental," Raven said. "We didn't understand how she'd reached him until just after Raimund's ceremony of adult citizenship. Full sixteen cycles and five children already added to the freehold. He was -- is -- very popular with our citizens. While Raimund was a condescending and irritating child, he was also a fine sailor, good fisher, and better than average hunter. He left with two other men on what was to be a three-day hunting sweep over the plains. On the fourth evening of their absence, a single Nightworld vampire delivered a letter to Queen Rowan."

Raven and Giles looked at Rowan. Waiting.

"I want to hit him around the head and shoulders with a willow switch," Rowan said, rolling her eyes. "He wrote: _Dearest sister, do not view my choice as diminishing deBerg's legacy. I petition a queen of Nightworld to embrace me. In so doing, I petition Nightworld to embrace and protect all of deBerg. I look to a future that will benefit us all._ "

Well. That explained the sense of evasion and embarrassment she'd felt coming from Rowan and Giles. It was almost inconceivable. She and Spike had been snatched from the jaws of certain death to rescue a limp noodle of a Prince who, among other things, did not want to be rescued.

"Let me see if I understand what we've just been told." Anita addressed her deceptively gentle remarks to Giles. "The person you brought us here to rescue does not wish to be rescued."

And there it was. 

Rowan's face. Giles' face. Kiernan's face. Raven's face. 

Buffy made a quick evaluation of the group. "She's not wrong, then."

"We do what we must. To save the ones we love. To protect our very lives." Rowan's hands were clasped, pressed just under her breasts. She stared into space, toward a bookshelf as she continued. "Raimund is my brother. He is also a citizen of deBerg. His experience of life is small. His vision of the future resembles the present. Any citizen of deBerg who makes the choice he has made would be entitled to our vigilance in questioning that choice."

Buffy let her cheek rest against Spike's shoulder. He shifted, slipped an arm around her and splayed his fingers loosely over her hip. Something inside her sighed and relaxed.

"So what is it you plan to do?" Anita pressed. "What do you expect us to bring to your _vigilance_?"

**SPIKE: IT'S HARD TO LEAD A CALVARY CHARGE . . .**

Rupert did most of the talking, and a fair amount of hand-waving instead of properly ending sentences. Behavior Spike recognized as 'How Much Should I Say Walking On Eggshells Giles'. Rowan or Raven occasionally weighed in with brief, limited explanations of Raimund's activities and character. Even as soap opera, the tale was a right bore. Spike found his interest held more by heat of Buffy's body under his fingertips, by the pressure of her head against his shoulder.

What seemed like an extraordinarily long time ago, he'd been chained to a wall in the Summers' basement, feigning sleep. And he had been kind of drifting there, in the dire and dark confusion created by The First's continued visits. Sound of the upper door opening, followed by two breathing bodies he immediately identified as Buffy and Willow brought him more or less into focus. They had paused a few steps below the door and spoken to each other quietly.

 _It's just . . . I feel like I'm missing something, Will._ Spike could remember almost everything Buffy had said during those last days, word for word. He could remember the way her voice and body language had subtly altered. Had subtly aged. _You met Nasty Vamp Willow, but did you ever hear Cordelia talk about her wish trip into Alternate Sunnydale?_

 _Cordelia was not talking so much when I was anywhere in the vicinity. After the factory incident . . ._

A small creak of wood told Spike one of them had seated herself on the third step. Buffy. 

_Cordy said it was little things at first. An empty parking lot, blowing trash. Then bigger clues. Behavior of people she thought she knew. Puzzling conversations, abnormal routines. Finally, looking eye to eye with the Big Wrong. Even then, she didn't get the alternate place thing. Cordy told me that when she was dying her main thought was_ Thank goodness. Now I can go home. _As if the whole time after the wish she knew it wasn't home, but was just too wrapped up in herself to admit it._

 _Xander and me, all fangy._ Willow sighed. _You don't think we're in . . .?_

 _Oh no. This is definitely not alternate-Sunnydale territory. But it's the little clues I'm thinking about._ Spike could _feel_ Buffy looking down toward where he lay. _We -- I -- need to see clearly and completely. We're fighting something that can wear other people's faces, but can never really **be** the people it's wearing. I get so wrapped up in the physical, in the fighting, Will. I'm good at that. But the physical isn't going to win it for us._

Spike had wanted her then, distracted by the sudden hardness against his belt as all the minimal store of blood left fueling his body diverted to a hopeful erection. More distracting was his terrified hope The First could not hear what Buffy was saying. 

Never been a Slayer like her, since the line began. Never been a woman like her.

_Thinking it through, and planning it out. Matching up external and internal clues to reality and possibility . . . that's the only way we can win this fight, Will._

And although he'd missed the final few moments before the buzzer, Spike had no doubt Buffy's coaching skills had won the game against The First. Here and now, clues that discrepancies existed between appearance and reality were flying thick and fast. He had said: _Sound exactly like ours_ , commenting on Rupert and Rowan's squabbling behavior. Spike rather thought Buffy had noticed that they did -- and they didn't.

Since entering deBerg Freehold, Spike had been matching up the clues. These next few blotted pages in the adventurer's diary were a howl. A random group of people get chosen by some arcane criteria, then ripped through dimensions -- to rescue a randy teenager from vampires? 

Spike wasn't buying it.

"I'm conflicted about where to start, but let me pick a point and jump in." Anita stretched, touching fingertips to toes, her eyes and voice cold as a December midnight, remembered from Spike's boyhood. "Let me recap for the _abductees_. Rowan's brother felt unappreciated and overshadowed by his sister. He developed a mad, inappropriate crush on a vampire queen. He ran away from home, seeking validation as a royal sex god. Two powerful magicians, who had utterly failed at understanding and defusing the situation, shanghaied a group of strangers in an un-thought-out attempt to do _something_ about the defection."

"Nice recap," Spike muttered. Buffy stirred against him. Yawned. Made a small Buffy-noise in her throat. Spike's fingers cramped as he fought the urge to slide them between her legs.

"And those same magicians expect us to go on a five-day walk across country to find a nest of vampires; then, through reason or force, remove said delinquent and bring him back here," Anita continued.

"I say . . ."

"Excuse me." Es held up her hand, interrupting Rupert's impending sputter. "There may be a cultural misunderstanding here, which may be important."

Someone else using their brain. Spike retrieved his hand from Buffy's hip and shifted her weight. "Only _one_ misunderstanding?" 

The snark drew a brief, measuring look from Forrester.

"Misunderstanding?" Rupert and Rowan questioned, in unison.

Es nodded. "From what you've told us, it seems Raimund became sexually active as soon as nature allowed. He's fathered six children. Is that statistically usual for one of your men? Or is there something special about Raimund that makes him more -- potent?"

Interesting expression on Double R's faces, Spike thought. Rupert's eyes flew to the ceiling and Rowan's cheeks became very pink. Wasn't just talking about sex, which didn't seem to much bother this crew. Seemed very down to earth, matter-of-fact about sex, these people.

"No." Raven threw Rupert a sharp, apparently disapproving look. "If this is, as you say "cultural" in nature, know that almost any of our men could be father of many children. The freehold's population is a delicate balance between the natural desire to reproduce, and a finite number of resources to support the population. We encourage and prefer planned reproduction. Gradual growth keeps us healthy."

"Raimund talked them into it," Rowan said rapidly. Cheek to temple, her face was now a blazing red. "The girls and women he courted, he talked them into disregarding the freehold's needs."

"Raimund has a gift." Rupert sighed, deeply, and rubbed his temples. "He is persuasive. Eloquent. Personable."

"Cult of Raimond," Spike said. He found himself the immediate focus of Es, Anita and Forrester's eyes. They understood what he was getting at.

"Raven, how finely planned is your economy, production and population?" Forrester asked.

"Finely planned, indeed. We know deBerg's needs to the stone and sack worth of production for dried fish, root crops, crocks of honey and preserves. We know how much provender will feed the cows and goats we need to make milk and cheeses. We know what is needed to feed deBerg through the six to seven ice moons." The fingers of Raven's folded hands tightened, then relaxed. "Ice moons during the last two years have stretched into the seventh moon. What small reserves we had have dwindled."

They really weren't in Kansas, Spike thought. He'd seen slim times among humans in Europe as the industrial-age rachetted into gear. But what Raven's words hinted at was post-apocalyptic. It was Alternative Universe Preppers-Gone-Wild times.

"You haven't thought this through, have you?" Anita was thoroughly, vibratingly pissed.

Rowan's fingers reached toward Rupert, then withdrew. Her jaw tightened, her chin tilted toward the ceiling. "I thought it would be better to have my brother back in deBerg than producing small relatives by humping the human cattle owned by Nightworld. My experience as a strategic battle planner is limited, so I've been improvising. You have become part of the improvisation. But no one here will be forced to participate in the rescue of my brother."

Silence followed Rowan's words.

Buffy yawned again, rubbing her cheek against Spike's arm. "You've obviously got a timetable. Please share that information."

"It's a five day march to Nightworld, under best conditions," Giles said. "Traditionally an embracing is conducted before the next moon passes after the banns are posted. That gives us . . ." he glanced sideways at Rowan, who nodded her head as if at an unspoken question, "no more than thirty days in total to respond."

"I have already calculated the amount of tribute and dowery that must be assembled," Rowan said. "We can be ready to travel by day after tomorrow."

"Whatever the outcome of the trip, you know those goods will never return to deBerg." Raven's entire body was rigid with anger. "'twill leave us perilously low going into the winter."

"I can't leave him with her." Rowan's soft statement held almost no emotion. 

Almost.

"Well then. There are preparations to me made." Raven was on her feet, heading to the door. "With me, Rowan. deBerg has tribute to assemble."


End file.
